A 



FATHEirS GIFT 

TO HIS , ^ 

CHILDREN : 


CONSISTING OF 

ORIGINAL ESSAY6, 

TALES, FABLES, REFLECTIONS, 8iC, 

\ ' 

EY WILLIAM MAYOR, L. L. D. 

I hector 'F STONESFIEID, OXON, VICAR OF H^RLIT, BERKS 
I CaAl'CAlN TO THE EARL OP MOIRA, S;C. 


VOL. T. 


Oinne tulii punctum, qui misicuit utile dulc I 

HC R 


PHILADELPHIA : 

rUCUSflED BY iM. CARTiV. 


1815 



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TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE 


THE COUNTESS OF LOUDON & MOIRA, 
THIS MISCELLANY, 

THE OFFSPRING OF A FATHER’S SOLICITUDE 
FOR HIS 

CHILDREN, 

IS MOST KESPECTFULLy INSCRIBED 

BT 

HER LADYSHIPS 

MOSTl DE voted f 
AND VERT HUMBLE SERVANT. 

THE AUTHOR. 


TToodsiock^ Adv. 30, 1804 



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I 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

I. Books .... 1 

II. The Charitable Boy . . 2 

III. Providence . . .4 

IV. The Sun .... 5 

V. The Peevish Child . . 8 

VI. The Frog and the Snail . . 10 

VII. The Young Hound . 12 

VIII. Feeling . . .14 

IX. The Grateful Scholars . .19 

X. Laws and Punishments . 22 

XI. Enigma I. . . .25 

XII. Sagacity of the Elephant . 29 

XIII. Memory . . .31 

XIV. Adventures of a Family Bible 35 

XV. The Advantages of Arithmetic 44 

XVI. The Amiable Boy . . 49 

XVII. The Ocean and the Rivers 58 

XVIII. The Tutor to his Pupils . 62 

XIX. May. — A Rhapsody . . 63 

XX. Perseverance . . 6T 

XXI. Prevailing Amusements, indicative 

of National Character . fO 

XXII. The Silly Question defended 76 
XXIII. Aristarchus, or the Critic . 79 

XXIV. The Contrast . . 84 

XXV. Geography . . 89 


VI 


Contents. 






PAGE 


XXVI. Newspapers . . 93 

XXVII. Juvenile Amusements . 99 

XXVIII. The Slave of Opinion * 105 

XXIX. Biography ... 112 

XXX. The Marvellous.— A Frag- 


ment . . . .115 

XXXI. Enigma II. . . 122 

XXXII. Botany . . .124 

XXXIII. Recollections . . 133 

XXXIV Independence . . .135 

XXXV. Ormah . . 138 

XXXVI. Raising and disappointing ex- 
pectations . . 148 

XXXVII. Health . . . .152 

XXXVIII. Poetry, a Refuge from Pain 157 
XXXIX. Tom Restless . .159 

XL. Moral Philosophy . . 169 

XLI. Transmigrations of an Eastern 

Prince . . .171 

XLII. On forming Connexions . 182 

XLIII. Popularity . . 187 

XLIV. Stenography . .189 

XLV. The Carter and the Two 

Horses . . 192 


XLVI. Prejudice . . 195 

XLVII. Hydrostatical Lamp . 199 

XLVIII. Patience . . 201 

XLIX. Ibrahim and Adalaide . 203 

L. Vegetables, an Elaboratory 

of Air . . 215 

LI. Cruelty to Animals . 220 

LII. Desultory Thoughts on Edu- 
cation . . 223 


Contents. 

LIII. Civility and Politeness 
LIV. Memoirs of Dr. Richard Bus- 
by . . . 

LV. Frugality 

LVI. Memoirs of a Cornish Curate 
LVII. History 

LVIII. Evasion, allied to Falshood 
LIX. Game of Twenty 
LX. Modesty and Contentment 
LXI. Negro Slavery 
LXII. Suspicion 
LXIII. Sonnet 

LXIV. Twelve Golden Rules 
LXV. The Dead Blackbird 
LX VI. Letter, &c. 


vii 

229 

232 

240 

244 

266 

270 

273 

277 

291 

295 

303 

305 

309 

311 


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ADVERTISEMENT. 


IT was the remark of an acute and in- 
telligent friend, “ that if an author of any 
talents were to produce only one book, 
on a subject \vhich allowed scope to the 
display of sentiment and feeli'ig, that book 
must possess peculiar claims to public 
attention ; as he would infallibly infuse 
into it the leading principles of his heart, 
and thus furnish a chart of his own mind 
and character.’’ 

Of the truth of this position I am fully 
sensible, as far as these volumes are con- 
cerned, though the observation I have 
quoted, was not meant to apply to them. 
The object I had in view, naturally ex- 
cited my tenderest sensibility; and I 
wrote with that warmth of conviction 
which a parent alone can feel, when the 
happiness oi* his children is the aim of his 
labours. How far I iiiay have contribut- 
ed to the satisfaction of other parents, can 

VOL. I. B 


X 


Advertisement, 


dnlv be ascertai eel from the liberal de* 
mand for a work which was originally 
sent into the world, anonymously, and 
with few extrinsic recommendations ; and 
how tar I may have succeeded in being 
useful to those in whose welfare* I am so 
deeply interested, and what returns of filial 
duty I may ultimately experience from 
them, for the anxious care and attc- tion 
I have ever shewn for their w^elfare and 
improvement, remains to be proved, by 
their condvict in more advanced ae:e, should 
it be my lot to witness it. Bat as I am 
conscious of the strongest claims to their 
gratitude, so I am not without hopes, that 
I shall find my best reward, in seeing 
them good and happy. Alas ! in putting 
this work a second time to the press, I 
have to lament that “one is not.” This 
object of my fondest affection and highest 
expectations was called from this world 
to a better, at a time viien his worth and 
his talents were rapidly developing them- 
selves ; and in his loss, I felt a thousand 
deaths. But it is the will of God, and I 
submit, liittle, howcA'cr, did 1 once ima- 
gine, that 1 should have so long survived 
him, c r th it f should ever have had this 


Advertisement, 


XI 


'opportunity, of rt cording my grief and 
my love. But one oi the subsequent vo- 
lumes, which were published sepcj-ately, 
having been long our of print, and still en- 
quired for, and a large impression of the 
second, almost entirely disposed of, I was 
induced to revise the whole, ana to add 
several relative pieces, which- had been 
gradually accumulating, since the first 
appearance of my plan. 

'l"o give the work, indeed, as much va- 
riety and interest as possible, was not only 
promoting my owm vieus in its original 
composition, but also discharging a just 
debt to a ge erous public ; for vvhose^ 
patronage 1 have every reason to be grate- 
ful, and of whose approbation I can never 
cease to be solicitous. Few have written 
more than I have done, for the use of 
ymung persons; or, let me thankfully 
add, with more uniform encouragement ; 
and I desire no other epitapth to mark 
my grave, than — Here lies, “the Chil- 
dren’s Friend.”^ 

* A title conferred on the Author, by some 
respectable critics. 


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PREFACE 


TO THE FIRS r EDITION. 

HE following work originated from 
a desire of impressing on the minds of 
the author’s own children, some useful 
lessons in the scitnce ol lift and manners ; 
and to vary the plan, he hits thought fit to 
intersperse a few short reifiarks on those 
studies, which are best calculated to en- 
lighten, instruct, and amuse. He is far, 
however, from supposing that he has ex- 
hausted his subject, or thi.t he has em- 
braced all the important obj'.'cts lie had in 
view ; but, for what he has done, he flat- 
ters himself he shall escaj^e Ijiame, if he 
is not found entitled to praise. He feels 
that his motives in this publication we re- 
good, however deficient the ex ecu ion 
may be ; and if he is fortunate enough to 
inspire oi e generous passion where it was 
wai;ting before, to extirpate one false pre- 
judice where it had been indulged, or to 
ii^Tease the fund of useful learning, and 

B 2 


xiY Preface, 

of innocent amusement, in the slightest 
degree, he will have the pleasure of reflect- 
ing, that his labours have not been whol- 
ly in vain. 

Persons of the highest abilities have not 
thought it derogatory to their genius to 
write for children ; and for whose use can 
the better employ their talents ? All are 
^ome time young, though they may not 
live to beconr.e old ; and if the child is not 
instructed, the man will be ignorant at 
l)esi ! 

It may not be amiss to observe, that the 
autlior of this work has had some experi- 
ence in the conduct of youth ; and to al- 
lure them to right and reclaim them from 
wrong, he thinks it expedient, that every 
artilic- ^ should be tried. Dry lectures, he 
has seldom found, to leave any lasting im- 
pression ; but convey the moral you wish 
to inculcate, through an interesting story 
or an incidental reflection, and the effect is 
seldom lost. 

May what was first intended for private 
use, be of some public benefit ! This is 
the only meed to n^hich the writer aspires 
—it is die fame that will be dearest to hia 
heart. 


A 


FATHER’S GIFT, 

TO HIS CHILDREN. 


I. BOOKS. 

FROM the earliest ages, books have 
been the solace of the wise, in every 
country where civilization was known ; 
and without them, what a blank would 
life appear ! All the knowledge we can 
acquire from actual experience is extreme- 
ly limited ; but books introduce us to the 
acquaintance of times long past — of states 
and nations now no more — of sciences in- 
vented, cultivated, and brought to perfec- 
tion, by the learned and ingenious of every 
clime and age. 

The discovery of letters, indeed, is of 
such importance, that many have ascribed 
it to a divine origin. W e in vain endeavour 
to trace it to its source. But learning, with- 


2 


The Charitable Boy. 

out infinite labour, could never have be- 
come general, had it not been diffused 
through the medium of the press. That 
noble invention, the art of printing, places 
the moderns in a most enviable situa- 
tion, compared with the ancients ; and 
nothing but gross inattention or criminal 
indifference can now palliate ignorance, 
or preclude knowledge. How thankful 
ought we to be for the superior privileges 
to which we were born; and how eager- 
ly ought youth to cultivate a taste for li- 
terature, which will fill up the blanks of life 
with amusement, occupy the interstices 
of enjoyment, and lead to that improve- 
ment of the soul, which we have reason 
to suppose will increase the fruitions of 
eternity ! 


II. THE CHARITABLE BOY ; OR, THE 
EFFECTS OF GOOD EXAMPLE. 

A poor old man was begging along 
the street. His figure was that of Mise- 
ry personified — his long beard swept his 
breast — he was lame and dccrepid ; but 


The Charitable Boy, v> 

still his eyes bespoke the spirit that had 
once animated his frame ; and his tatter- 
ed dress of red, patched witli every co- 
lour of the rainbow, shewed that he had 
formerly been a soldier. “ For God’s 
sake, relieve the poor maimed veteran !” 
were all the words he used. Real dis- 
tress is never clamorous ; its silence is 
most eloquent and impressive. 

A number of disorderly boys followed 
him, rather out of curiosity than pity : 
one only had the charity to relieve him. 
Jack Heartley had but a single pen- 
ny, and he gave it to the old soldier. 
“ iVly blessing attend you, young master,” 
said he. Heartley felt the glow of 
benevolence on his cheek, and was proud 
to be distinguished from the rest. He 
looked round with the consciousness of 
self-approbation : his companions blush- 
ed that they had been so unfeeling — and 
to compensate for their inJifference, all 
who had it in their power united to con- 
tribute their mite. 

How amiable is it to set a good exam- 
ple, and how r.owerful is its impression on 
youth ! One good boy is not only a bless- 
ing to his parents, but to many among 


4 


Providence, 


his associates. To feel for others is 
glorious — to relieve the distressed is G- d- 
like ; but when the defenders of our coun- 
try are reduced to beg their bread, what 
heiU't can be so callous as to refuse it ! 


III. PROVIDENCE. 

I have been thrown from my po- 
ney,* ’ said a little boy to his father ; “ but 
by chance I am not hurt.” ‘‘ I am glad 
to hear of your safe escape, my dear child, 
but you ought to ascribe it to Provi- 
dence. Chance is blind, and cannot 
protect us; Providence watches over 
all. 

“ Look round on Nature — on those 
things most obv.ous to your senses — on 
plants, trees, animals, and even yourself : 
lift y(jur eyes to Heaven — see the beauti- 
ful regularity of the planetary orbs, the re- 
turn of day and night, and the revolution 
of seasons ; then reflect — can these things 
be the effect of Chance? No! A Su- 
preme Power rules and directs the order 
of the universe, and holds the chain of 


The Sun, 


5 


events. Learn to acknowledge this gi'eat 
and good Being in every t'iing that befals 
you. Pay him the homage of grateful 
praise forh's benefits ; adore his unsearch- 
able wisdom when he afflicts ; and re- 
pose a humble confidence in his mercy 
and protection, amidst the various ills 
that beset the path of human life. Ex- 
tend your views beyond the present scene 
to permanent possessions and pure plea- 
sures ; and entitle yourself to their enjoy- 
ment, by studying to obey the will of Him 
who placed you here. Look up to his 
superintending Providence for every bless- 
ing you would wish to receive, and for 
security from every danger you are anx- 
ious to avoid ; and scorn to be indebted 
to Chance for what you really owe to 
your Father and your God.’’ 


IV. MODERN OPINIONS ON THE SUB- 
STANCE OF THE SUN. 

That glorious luminaty which gives 
light and heat to creation, since the be- 
ginning of time, has been either the object 


6 


The Sun. 


of religious veneration, or of wonder and 
delight to the sons of men. The ignorant 
savage frequently worships the sun as the 
God of this lower world ; the astronomer, 
from a contemplation of its effects, rises to 
the source of all. The great mass of man- 
kind, however, whether Christians, Jews, 
Mahometans, or Pagans, enjoy his splen- 
dour ar.d his warmth, without troubling 
themselves about the substance of which 
he is composed. 

1 he rustic, when he saw an astronomer 
levelling his telescope to the moon, happy 
in his own ignorance, justly observed, ‘‘ that 
whatever might be seen or said of that 
planet by the learned, they must ever be as 
far distant from it as he was.” Yet let 
not this be construed as tending to ridicule 
philosophical inquiries. When pursued 
under the guidance of good sense and good 
principles, they cannot fail to render men 
more enlightened and devout. But the dis- 
cordant hypotheses which astronomers form 
on subjects beyond the reach of human 
intelligence, ought to teach us modesty in 
argument, and diffidence in assertion. 

The sun was long supposed to be an im- 
mense globe of lire; butHerschel, who has 


The Sun. 


7 


paid great attention to his spots, considers 
that luminary as similar to the planets, 
and not a flaming orb. He calculates 
some of its mountains to be two hundred 
leagues in height. According to this 
astronomer, the atmosphere of the sun is 
composed of different elastic fluids, some 
of which are luminous or phosphoric, 
others simply transparent. The former 
give the sun the appearance of a mass of 
light or fire ; while the latter bein^ only 
transparent, suffer his body to be seen — 
hence the malculee or spots. This able 
astronomer, whom royal munificence has 
naturalized in Britain, farther conceives 
the sun to be inhabited, as there is rea- 
son, from analogy, to suppose that all the 
planets are. 

On the other hand, Lalande, the French 
astronomer, tliinks that the sun is really a 
solid mass ; but that his surface and part 
of his body are composed of an inflam- 
mable fluid, which, by any movement, 
leaves uncovered sometimes a portion of 
his body or his mountains ; and that 
these constitute his spots ; w hile profes- 
sor Wilson considers the spots of this lu- 
minary as merely eruptions or volcanos. 

B 3 


8 


The Peevish Child. 


All these opinions are ingenious ; but 
who shall decide on their truth, or which 
ought to be adopted in preference to the 
rest ? 


V. THE PEEVISH CHILD. 

“ Who has offended you, my dear ? 
Why do you pout ? Will you have any 
thing? What can I do for you? My 
sweet, do not cry — it will hurt your eyes. 
Tell me, my love, what vexes you. No 
one shall vex you.” 

Such w ere the weak effusions of ma- 
ternal fondness to a pretty, but a spoiled 
girl. They increased, as may be well 
imagined, the ill humour they were in- 
tended to remove ; because it was seen 
that it gave concern. Silent obstinacy 
was the only return that w^as made to such 
endearing expressions — perhaps silent 
contempt was intermixed w ith it. 

The anxiety of the mother rose with 
the sobs of the child. ’^I’hc servants were 
sll summond to account for the cause of 
this distress. One did not know what 


The Peevish Child. 


9 


was the matter — another had not seen the 
young lady — all were afraid of blame. 
The kitchen wench, too honest to dissem- 
ble, and conscious of havivg only done 
her duty, explained the whole : .\n’t 

please you. Ma’am, Miss there wanted to 
wash her hands in the boiling tea-kettle, 
and I would not let her.” 

The mother could scarcely refrain from 
censuring the prudence that prevented her 
favourite from being scalded. “ Her 
child, indeed, should have her own way, 
when it was proper.” 

Next day she had her own way, proper 
or not — for how was a child to judge I 
When the servant w^as absent, she \ as de- 
termined to dip her hands in the boiling 
tea-kettle. She did — and almost lost the 
use of her fingers for ever. 

The foolish indulgence of children is 
frequently the cause of their ruin, and al- 
ways of their misery. The mind that is 
not bent in early youth must be broken 
in more advanced age, in order to make 
it submit to controul. And who was 
ever qualified to command, who had not 
first learned implicitly to obey ! 


10 


VI. THE FROG AND THE SNAIL. 

A FABLE. 


The constant drop will wear the stone : — 
The slow but sure in time get on. 

One morning when the vernal flowers 
Open’d their cups to drink the showers, 
Ere sluggard man had left his bed, 

Or ’danger’d reptiles by his tread, 

A brisk young frog, intent to stray, 

Along a garden took his way. 

And as he bounded, full of glee, 

A creeping snail he chanc’d to see. 

“ You lazy animal,” he cried, 

“ Emblem of bloated stately pride, 

“ That scarce can crawl or move along, 
“For fear of jostling in the throng, 

“ When do you fancy, at this pace, 

“ You’ll reach the object of your chase? 
“ No doubt yon lettuce tempts your view, 
“ Or yon ripe plum of glossy blue ; 

“ But ere you come within their sphere, 

“ 1 he keen-eyed gard’ner will be here ; 


Fable. 


11 


While I upon yon flowery bank, 

With early dew, so fresh and dank, 
Shall soon be lodg’d, and find my prey 
‘‘ Sufficient for the longest day.” 

“ Softly but slowly,” said the snail. 

Not speed but diligence prevail.” 

The frog leap’cl on — bade snail good-mor- 
row, 

And deem’d its life a scene of sorrow. 

Diverted from the intended route. 

Now here, now there, he hopp’d in doubt. 
“ That bed will copious stores supply, 
This bank I find too hot, too dry ; 

Again I’ll shift ; for, free to change, 

O’er all the garden soon I’ll range ; 

And when I quite can suit my taste, 

Then is the time to feed and rest.” 

Thus hast’ning with unsteady aim, 
From bad to worse, in quest of game, 
Again he cross’d the steady snail, 

Just as it gain’d the propping rail 
On which the downy plum repos’d, — 
The object which its journey clos’d. 

“ Ah, friend!” inturn the snail exclaim’d, 
“ What’s this I see ! the bank you nam’d 
Is still unreach’d — though slow my pace, 
“ I’ve beat you hollow in the race. 

You hopping, vain, unsettled thing, 

B i 


12 


Fable. 


‘‘ Lo, what a\"ails your length of spring ? 
“ Had you like me pursued the line, 

“ Unchanging from your first design, 

“ Ere now you might have gained a cover, 
“ And fed as I now do in clover.” 

MORAL. 

The desultory miss their mark, — - 
The steady find it in the dark. 

To perseverance all submit. 

And dullness wins the prize from wit. 


VII. THE YOUNG HOUND. 

A FABLE. 

A staunch and well trained pack of 
hounds, having lost several of the old ones 
rather suddenly, by a distemper, was 
obliged to be completed out of the young 
dogs in the kennel, as is the usual prac- 
tice ; and for young dogs, they hunted 
amazingly well — because they were tact- 
able, and minded their elders. It hap- 
pened, however, tliat one was imprudent- 


Fable. 


13 


ly admitted which was a mere puppy, 
while much better dogs were set aside. 
The reason given for this partiality was, 
tliat his father had been distinguished for 
a good nose, and had long been a leader 
in the pack : and it was supposed that 
the youngster would not prove ot a bas- 
tard breed. At first, he w^as proud of 
being taken into the field ; seldom open- 
ed ; but wagged his tail, and went on in 
the ranks ; or if he was distanced, it was 
not noticed. But in a short time, he be- 
gan to give himself airs ; and to think 
himself the most knowing dog in the pack, 
though in bis puppy hood still. When the 
rest were running, he W’ould stand still — 
when they were standing, he would squat 
down — if he felt the huntsman’s whip, he 
would growl ; and in short, though the 
only one that did not perform his duty, 
complained of the hardships he underwent, 
in being controuled ; and making a party 
; with the other pupj)ics in the kennel, had 
i nearly risen, and \vorried the whole pack. 

1 For a short space, nothing but confu- 
I sion reigned — and sport was at an end. 

I 'To have reduced a puppy to his former 
; rank, ^veuld have been nothing — -for he 


14 


Fable, 


would have been a puppy still : it was 
therefore determined that lie should be 
tied up, and that no dog should associate 
with him, till he had made his peace with 
the huntsman. This he was soon glad to 
do, as his daily fare depended on his sub- 
mission ; and as he found that his obsti- 
nacy and ill-hurnour could eventually hurt 
none but himself. 

MORAL. 

It is the duty of youth to listen to the 
admonitions, and to follow the example, 
of the aged and the wise. But proud and 
conceited, they frequently wish to lead, 
before they have learned to obey ; and if 
their heedless career were not checked, 
they would often rush on the precipice, 
though they might be safe and honoured 
on the plain. 


15 


VIII. FEELING. 

THE CHARACTER OF INFELIX. 

“ It is not SO much what w^e suffer, is 
the reflection on what we have lost, that 
gives a poignancy to the heart of sensibi- 
lity. The mind of the unfortunate is con- 
tinually recun'ing to objects which are 
now no more ; objects on which it had 
placed its fondest attachment, and which 
it considered as the sources of its highest 
gratification. While the void which these 
leave is felt in the heart, all the comforts 
we have left present themselves in vain. 
In spite of reason and religion, we indulge 
the regret which we know is past relief ; 
and that reflection, though it ought to ren- 
der us resigned, only aggravates our woe. 
What hope tells us may admit of allevia- 
tion, is endured with some degree of pa- 
tience ; but when nothing but despair, 
fixed and unalterable, meets our view, the 
heart then yields itself up to the horrors of 
its fate, and derives its only consolation 
from the prospect of being reduced to that 
state where feeling is susjx^nded, and re- 


16 


Feeling, 

flection lost. Against this weakness it is 
in vain to argue. We all set a value, 
either real or ideal, on every thing we love; 
and when we are deprived of any of our 
long- indulged delights, it is not the indif- 
fpence wdth which the unimpassioned 
niight support our lot, or the unfeeling 
/inight disregard it ; it is not its worth in 
the estimation of others, but the price we 
have ourselves affixed to it, that racks the- 
soul on its loss. 

Since then uncertainty attends all we 
can look on with the eye of pleasure, or 
what is w^orse, since we are morally sure 
of disappointment in our hopes of their 
enjoyment, can the heart of sensibility 
ever know peace — can the dream of bliss 
amuse its sensations 

In this manner Infelix used to vent the 
emotions of his perturbed heart. It was 
broken with distress : its last hold W'as 
gone. Infelix had felt tlie stings of in- 
gratitude — he had never received the con- 
solations of duty, much as they were de- 
served — and he had lost the only joy, on 
which he hoped to have pillowed his age. 
His best actions had generally been mis- 
represented, h's words perverted, and his 
conduct and view^s belied. 


The Character of Infelix. 17 

It was known he was a man of feeling ; 
and the world was determined that he 
should have full exercise for this unenvi- 
able quality. But amidst its malignity, 
his heart never harboured a thought of re- 
venge: he pitied rather than blamed — 
and though the warmth of sensibility 
might sometimes draw from him a harsh 
expression, its remembrance passed as ra- 
pidly as the shadow, while the substance 
of goodness remained in his heart. 

He possessed wit and learning — too 
much indeed ! for they exposed him to 
envy and detraction, while his native mo- 
desty prevented him from turning them to 
his own advantage. But his wit never 
wounded the deserving, nor played u ith 
the unfortunate ; nor was his learning em- 
ployed to flatter vice, or to sanction folly. 
Warm to those whose hearts beat in uni- 
son with his own, he was the most faithful 
of friends ; and as for enmity, though he 
felt it often without a cause, he never re- 
turned it. His constant study was to tri- 
timph over those who had injured him, by 
laying them lUider obligations. He used 
to say, that it wi\^ too much trouble for a 
wi.se man to regard the silly malice of silly 


18 


Feeling. 

peo]:>le ; and unworthy of a good man to 
retaliate. 

But with all these amiable qualities, 
both fortune and nature had conspired to 
render him unhappy. His delicacy of 
sentiment was ill adapted to the rude blasts 
which continually assailed him. T orn by 
excess of sensibility, his frame soon yield- 
ed to the shock. Those who were bound 
to alleviate his ills, were the primary cause 
of their pressure. He could strive in some 
measure with the world, because he knew 
that opposition was to be expected from 
it — but against domestic ingratitude he 
had no antidote — its poison penetrated his 
vitals ; and he fell a victim to its effects, 

REFLECTION. 

To feel is an honour to human nature. 
Sensibility is the offspring of a noble and 
cultivated mind : it is the source of the 
most refined pleasures — the impression 
that heaven has stamped on its peculiar 
favourites ; yet how many pangs does it 
cost the unfortunate ; and how many 
thorns does it plant in the way of the for- 
lorn! To a certain degree our feelings 


Savillc. 


19 


should be indulged ; but their emotions 
should be regulated, and their excesses 
carefully restrained, else they will operate 
to the injury, both of health and happi- 
ness. 


IX. SAVILLE ; OR, THE GRATEFUL 
SCHOLARS. 

Duty to parents and gratitude to pre- 
ceptors are virtues which no one was ever 
deficient in, that prospered and was hap- 
py. Yet regardless of the consequences, 
we daily see children indifferent to their 
pare nts’ jieace, and neglectful of those who 
have laboured to instruct them. 

But can the most ignorant suppose, 
that the small pittance which a master re- 
ceives, for his faithful attention to form 
the youthful mind, is a compensation for 
his care ? And does not his second parent, 
if he has done his duty, deserve some re- 
turn from the soil he has cultivated ? 

I will charitably suppose that want of 
reflection rather than want of gratitude, 
often occasions the neglect of tutors, whicli 
B 5 


20 


Saville ; or 


no benevolent heart could think of being 
guilty of, without the bliisli of shame. 
Selfish as the world is, there are innate 
principles of goodness in the human soiih 
that only want to be awakened, to display 
their amiable sensibilities. The simple 
narrative i have to record is not the fiction 
of imagination. May it teach others to 
know what they ought to imitate or avoid ! 

During a long and active life, Saville 
had trained up numbers in the precepts 
of virtue and good learning. He had ex- 
hausted without enriching himself ; and 
on the verge of the gra /e, he scarcely 
knew where to find a refuge from the 
storm. 

Necessity — and how bitter that neces- 
sity must have been, every delicate mind 
may judge ! drove him to apply for relief to 
those who had once been under his protec- 
tion — had eaten at his table, and slept under 
his roof, during that happy period when 
hope is young, and the days are uncloud- 
ed with care. Some had forgotten his 
person — others had forgotten themselves. 
Notwithstanding the philanthropy of Sa- 
viile’s heart, he began to believe the old 
adage, “ that services done to the young 


The Grateful Scholars. 21 

and the old are equally useless, as the one 
forget them, and the other live not long 
enough to repay them.” His delicacy 
would not suffer him to make many trials 
of such ingratitude. ^ He -.was ready to 
sink under his misfortunes. Providence, 
however, directed him to two brothers, 
who in consequence of his care in their 
early youth, and their own diligent exer- 
tions in maturer years, had obtained a 
competence in foreign lands, and were re. 
turned to spend it with honour in their 
own. These, ii^.stead of turning their 
backs on his distress, invited him in the 
most cordial manner, to pass the remain- 
der of his days with them. It tvould have 
shewn pride rather than humility, in his 
sii-uation, not to have accepted such a dis- 
interested offer. His days indeed w'erc 
few, after he found this asylum ; but 
they were closed in comfort ; and his for- 
mer pupils, having long lost their owm, bc- 
Availed this second father with tears of 
grateful remembrance, and inscribed their 
sorrows on his tomb. 

The following sonnet addressed to an 
aged preceptor, CAhibits an amiable fea- 
ture in the human heart, and therefore 
merits a place on this occasion. 


22 


Laivs and Fimishments* 


Friend of my youth, informer of my mind, 
Whose guardian care my heedless steps re- 
clairnM, 

Taugiit them the bow’rs of Literature to find, 
And show’d where Honour’s hallow’d temple 
flam’d ; 

O let my verse, though humble, greet thine ear : 
The heart’s pure incense to the good is dear! 

And well my heart, with warm aflbction fir’d, 
To thee its homage, gratefully, may pay ; 

By thee with love of virtuous lore inspir’d, 

It pants to follow, where thou ied’st the way. 

All that I know, or glean’d from saint or 
sage,— • 

The taste to feel their beauties and admire. 
Flow’d from thy toils ; and may thy honour’d 
age 

Be blest with peace, nor feel one void desire. 


X. LAWS AND PUNISHMENTS. 

A humane and sensible child, about 
twelve years of age, had accidentally seen 
a meserable wretch undergo the punish- 
ment of whipping at a cart’s tail. He 
burst into tears ; and in that state came 
running to his father, and asked him who 
liad a right to use the poor man so ? 


Laws and Punishments* 23 

“ My clear,” said the fatlier, “ I admire 
your sensibility — even crimes should not 
render us unfeeling for those who suffer. 
But you must know,” continued lie, 
‘‘ that in every civilized country, there 
are Laws ; and the original intention of 
these, was to guard the weak from the ag- 
gressions of the strong — to protect the pro- 
perty of individuals — to support the in- 
terests of the community, for the sake of 
each of its component members, — and to 
make justice not only a principle of the 
heart, but a . tie w^hicheven the abandoned 
must not hope to violate with impunity. 

“ In some countries, it is true. Laws 
are perverted from the original institution 
-—they indeed punish the poor, but can- 
not reach the great. In this happy island, 
however, in w^hich it was 3 'our good for- 
tune to be born, impartial justice and 
equal rights are your native inheritance. 
No one, without incurring danger, can un- 
justly defraud you of what property is 
your’s. All ranks are held together by a 
soeial chain, the lowest links of which are 
of as strong, diough not of so costly me- 
tal as the highest ; and the real value of 
each is justly appreciated by its utility, 
s 6 


24 Laws and Punishments, 

“ Bat perhaps you do not immediately 
comprehend the precise meaning of all 
this. As you advance in years it shall be 
my care (if Providence allows me the op- 
portu’uty) to inspire you with a venera- 
tion for the form of government and for 
the laws under which you live. 

“ The wretched being whose punish- 
ment excited your pity, from a depravity 
of heart — perhaps from some temptation 
he could not at the moment resist — for 
God only knows the real motives of ac- 
tions, and we ought to judge charitably ! 
has offended against the laws of his coun- 
try — was proved guilty — and has receiv- 
ed a milder sentence than rigorous justice 
might have demanded. He indeed suf- 
fers ; but the public is benefitted. 

“ Were there no restraints on the pas- 
sions, the vices, and the perverse conduct 
of mankind, no one could be safe in per- 
son or property. The Laws impose 
those restraints ; they leave us, in this 
kingdom at least, to enjoy ourselves, our 
possessions, and every pleasure which 
trenches noton the privileges, possessions, 
and pleasures of others ; but to the ill-dis- 
posed they hold out the dread of punish- 


Lcnvst and Punishments. 25 

ment ; and thus make even negative vir- 
tue productive of public good. I do not 
mean to say, tliat Avhen people are only 
good from necessity or fear, they possess 
equal merit with those wiio act from prin- 
ciple ; but yet the community is preserv- 
ed in safety and security, as long as either 
law, or the stronger sense of duty, ope- 
rates on human conduct. 

“ Be it your study, then, to regard the 
Laws, not as capable of hurting you , but 
of doing you good. Venerate them, be- 
cause they are founded in wisdom, sanc- 
tioned by the experience of ages, and pro- 
ductive of public good ; and thiiik not, 
even if tliey could be eluded or violated 
with impunity, that you could cither be 
safe or happy. 

“ But above all, learn to act on higher 
principles than those of restraint, and to 
respect yourself. No vigilance of magis- 
trates, no salutary provision of human 
laws, can at all times and on all occasions 
guard against the evasions of the artful, 
or the force of the abandoned. The bonds 
which the most perfect human institutions 
impose, to be at all times effectual, must 
be strengthened by the sense of duty. If 


26 


Enigma* 

this be felt, conscience supplies the defects 
of legal provisoes ; and men who listen 
to its sacred dictates, and act according to 
its unpcrverted suggestions, are virtuous 
because they are wise, and become happy, 
because tjiey deserve to be so.” 


XI. ENIGMA I. 

Did you not promise, papa,” said 
Anna Maria, “ that you would sometimes 
entertain us with an enigma, to try our 
ingenuity ; I warrant you I can find out 
one as soon as my brothers. Now try us 
— do — and I will attend to any other stu- 
dy you recommend to-morrow.” 

“ Well, Anna, I will not be worse than 
my word with you. Enigmas have their 
use. They exercise the judgment — they 
give habits of reflection — they teach the 
art of thinking closely of separating parti- 
cular attributes from general definitions ; 
and sometimes they impress a little moral 
on the heart. 

“ They have the merit, besides, of be- 
ing very ancient. The scriptures record 


Enigma, 27 

several ; and we have reason to suppose, 
that they were not quite neglected among 
the more pplished heathen nations of an- 
tiquity. 

“ Now take the following ; and see if 
you can discover the mysterious word.” 

With numerous brothers at a birth, 

My parent sends me forth ; 

And when I first appear on earth, 

I bear a doubtful worth ; 

For should the public eye disdain 
To view me with regard; — 

To boast my merit would be vain— 

In vain to hope reward. 

I*m doom’d to combat every woe ; 

With diilness to contend ; 

From prejudice to lure the foe, 

From flattery the friend. 

The cutting taunt, the galling sneer, 

The poison’d tongue I feel ; 

And early I have cause to fear 
The wounds time cannot heal. 

Yet should I gaintlie triumph fair. 

And once the foe defy — 

Th’ assailants yield in black despair 
My fame can never die. 


28 


Enigma. 

Then down the stream of time I glide ; 

Delight, instruct, improve ; 

For solitude a charm provide, 

Or soothe disastrous love ; • 

Each various science give to shine, 

Each lovely landscape shew ; 

Direct to Pallas* hallow’d shrinCj 
And warm with virtue’s glow. 

For had I never seen the light, 

In vain hadMARo sung. 

And every muse of fancy bright 
The lyre of Flaccus strung. 

In vain had Plato sought the shade, 

His wisdom had been lost ; 

Ev’n Tully’s powers without my aid, 
Were now an empty boast. 

“ Well! this is very pretty. I have 
it”— -cried Anna Maria. “It is Let- 
ters.” — “ No,” said one of her brothers, 
“ that word does not apply to every part 
of the description.” — “ You speak just- 
ly,” observed the lather. “ Come, try 
again, Anna. What do a number of let- 
ters make?” — “ A Book — a Book,” said' 
Anna Maria with exultation ! — “ You 
are very right, — I meant a Book ; and as 
you have so soon discovered tliis riddle, 
you shall be indulged w ith more, on some 
future occasion.” 


29 


XII. THE SAGACITY OF THE ELEPHANT. 

Numerous facts hav^e been recorded of 
the half-reasoning powers of the elephant, 
particularly in its native regions ; and 
though there is no doubt that a state of 
servitude and a removal to an ungenial 
cLme are unfavourable for a display of its 
instincts and its energies, the following re- 
C' nt instance of its sagacity deserves to 
be recorded. 

A sentinel belonging to the menagerie 
at Paris, anxious to discharge his duty, 
was extremely vigilant, every time he 
mounted guard near the elephants, to pre- 
vent the spectators from supplying them 
with casual food. This conduct was not 
much calculated to procure him tlie friend- 
ship of those sagacious animals. The fe- 
male in particular beheld him with a very 
jealous eye, and had several times endea- 
voured to correct his officious interference, 
by besprinkling him with water from her 
trunk. 

One day, when a great number of peo- 
ple were collected to view diose noble 
quadrupeds, the opportunity seemed con- 


30 The Sagacity of the Elephant, 

venient for receiving, unnoticed, a small 
piece of bread ; but the rigorous sentinel 
happened then to be on duty. The fe- 
male, however, placed herself before him, 
watched all his gestures, and the moment 
he opened his mouth to give the usual ad- 
monitions to the spectators, discharged a 
stream of water full in his face. A gene- 
ral laugh ensued ; and the sentinel having 
wiped himself, stood a little on one side, 
and continued his vigilance. Soon after, 
he had occasion to repeat his charge to 
the company, not to give any thing to the 
elephants ; but no sooner had he uttered the 
words, than the female laid hold of the 
musket, twirled it round her trunk, trod 
it under foot, and did not restore it, till she 
had twisted it into the form of a cork- 
screw. 

Whether tliis put a stop to his officious- 
ness we are not informed; but it proba- 
bly taught him more caution in coming 
within the reach of an animal, whose na- 
tural appetites he was disposed unneces- 
saiily to controul. 


31 


MEMORY. 

XIII. DIALOGUE BETWEEN A LITTLE 
BOY AND HIS FATHER. 


Boy. Dear Papa, I cannot learn the 
task iny master set me : yet it is never out 
of my mind, night or day. You see I 
have had the book in my hand at all proper 
times, ever since my return from school, 
and yet I cannot repeat more than a few 
lines, perfectly. 

Father. N ever fear, but you will be able 
to accomplish it, if you set about it with a 
willing mind, and in a judicious manner. 

Boy. Indeed I am very willing to o- 
blige my master ; his kiiidness to me de- 
serves it : but 1 find it impossible to com- 
mit so many lines to memory. If you 
will tell me how I can do it, I will most 
readily follow^ your directions. 

Father. I am happy to find you of 
this disposition. \\ ith pleasure I have 
observed your attention, and in due time 
should have assisted you, had you not 

VOL. I c 


32 Memory. 

of your own accord mentioned your diffi- 
culti(‘s. 

Boy. Well, papa, how am I to over- 
corn ( 'hem ? 

Father. In one word, by perseverance, 
judiciously applied. You will recollect 
that when the letters of the alpha l)et were 
first pointed out to you, it was some time 
before you could distinguish them, and 
call them by their proper names. By de- 
grees you mastered this. Next, when 
they were arranged in words, you found 
the same difficulty in reading ; but by 
practice and my assistance, from short 
words you got on to long ones ; and in 
due course you were able, instead of re- 
garding it as a task you were to j)eribrm, 
to take up a book for the pleasure it gave 
you. 

Boy. All this I remember, and I am 
indebted to you f^r taking so much pains 
to lead me on, step by step, till reading be- 
came one of the greatest celights I could 
enjoy. But is memory to be acquired by 
toil and perseverance ? 

Father. Most assuredly. Memory is 
extremely artificial. I'here are some," in- 
dcea, who naturally possess it in a greater 


Memory, S3 

degree than others ; but by practice any 
one may improve r — by neglect, the best 
memory may be impaired. 

Boy, Yon astonish me. I have heard 
my niaster say such a one had no memory 
^ — such a one had a good memorv. 

Father, his miglit be very true, com- 
paratixely speaking. S{jme have, as I 
have already told you, a much greater 
facility of learning any thing by heart than 
others ; but no one is quite destitute of 
memory, who is not destitute of reason ; 
and it is often seen that they who re- 
member quickest, forget the soonest; 
whereas, w'hut is slowly gained, is retained 
long. 

Boy, Then, papa, T am sure I shall not 
speedily forget my task, if I could once ac- 
quire it : for I find I am not quick in 
learning to repeat it. 

Father, Mind me. You say you can 
repeat a lew' lines j)t rfectly. Let this con- 
vince you, that you will tvith diligence 
gradually learn the whole. Con over, and 
repeat to yourself, four or six lines more. 
\\ hen you retain them, repeat the preced- 
ing, and as it were, add them to } our 
stock. I'ixn set about another select 


34 Memory. 

number ; and when you have fived them 
in your memory, go over the whole again 
that you have learnc d, in order to fix their 
coni .ection in your mind. Proceed thus, 
till you come to the end of your task, and 
I can answer for your success. 

Boy. Thank you papa. I thought 
that reading the w^hole, over and over, was 
the best way to learn it. 

feather. By no means. Whoever at- 
tempts too much atoncewdll never execute 
any thing. But by attending to one object 
at a time, and by persevering industry, 
you see what wonders are accomplished. 
The author composes word by word, the 
printer letter by letter ; the mason lays a 
stone at a time ; but by degrees books 
are written and printed, houses and palaces 
rise. 

Boy. J will carefully attemd to your ad- 
vice, .nd hope by degrees to find my me- 
mory improve. 

Father. Be satisfied you will. By 
practice, united to industry, every thing is 
rendered easy. The next task that is set 
yc.u w ill be easier than the present ; the 
third than the second ; and thus you w ill 
go on, until what at present appears a diffi- 


35 


Adventures of^ 

culty, will be converted to an agreeable 
recreation. You will be pleased with your 
increasing powers of memorv ; and every 
new accession you make to its stores, will 
be a fund to draw upon for the remainucr 
of your life. 


y.iv. ADVENTURES OF A FAMILY 
BIBLE. 

RELATED BY ITSELF. 

Various have been tlie adventures of 
beings and things, not more important than 
myself, which have been obtruded on the 
public ; and therefore I hope my story will 
be heard with patience, if not wdth 
pleasure. It shall be as concise as pos- 
sible — embcl’ishment would ill become 
me. 

1 was produced to light in the reign of 
James I. and being a new translation of an 
excellent original work, which without 
boasting I may say is of divine authority, I 
was soon received’ into a worthy family, 
consisting of a venerable couple, and two 
sons and a daughter. The old people used 


36 Adventures of 

to make their children read me, every 
Sunday, and at other times when they 
could find leisure. Their own eyes be- 
gan to fail them ; but they constantly 
liste ed tome, commented to their family 
on my beauties, and enforced the obser- 
vance of my unerring precepts. 

In this society I was much valued. I 
was handsomely bound, and ornamented 
with silver clasps. The names and ages 
of the young people were inscribed in my 
front : I was indeed the depository of the 
family secrets and cemnections ; and when 
the father died, he left me to his only 
daughter. 

She had then reached the twentieth year 
of her age. For some time after the loss 
of her parent, she was inconsolable, and 
referred to me for advice ; but, impres- 
sions of sorrow, by a natural elasticity, 
are soon eiface d from the youthful breast. 
Her heart speedily admitted a new 
favourite. An officer in the army paid 
his addresses to her : they were soon 
married ; and tliough I was not discard- 
ed from the house, for more than twelve 
years, rny clasps were scarcely opened. 

The war breaking out between Charles 


37 


A Family Bible, 

and his parliament, the husband of my 
owner was soon called on duty. He 
fought for his King, and fell at the battle 
of Edgehill. My mistress was plunged 
into the deepest distress by this sad event; 
and she began to think of me. Once 
more I assisted in drying her tears. I 
told her they should meet again. This 
hope was balm to htT wounded spirit — 
She kissed me with rapture ; and during 
the remainder of her life, took me for her 
instructor and guide. 

It happened, that in the succeeding in- 
terval of confusion, the property of my 
first possessor’s family came into dispute. 
I’he register of a birth was wanting to 
complete the title ; and in the reign of 
Charles ! 1. 1 was fortunately referred to, 
as being likely to funhsh some domestic 
records. — I was brought into a court of 
justice, where I am seldom quoted, 
though often kissed. My evidence was 
admitted — and 1 felt h ippy in being instru- 
mental in serving the descendants of my 
first master. 

For some time after, 1 knew not what 
became of me. I was so little used that 
I fell into a trance ; when I recovered, I 


58 Adventures oj 

found myself in the hands of a puritan ; 
from whom I learned, that none of my 
brethren had been much in vogue for 
many years; \h 2 A something called Hum- 
JBRAS had been more esteemed ; and my 
present master talked of nothing but the 
profanation that had been offered me and 
the indignities I had undergone. He, in- 
deed, , did not give me leave to sleep : I 
was constantly on his table ; and being a 
preacher, he took me every Sunday up 
into the pulpit with him, and beat me 
violently against the cushion. At this 
j:eriod, 1 certainly received a great share 
of ex ternal homage ; but from some things 
I observed in private, I had reason to con- 
clude tha- my advice was much more 
talked of than valued — for I am of no 
sect ; but the friend, the comforter of all 
Vvho attend to my prec( pts ! 

Had not my frame been strong, the 
puritan would have, perhaps, been my last 
master ; but I stood his rough usage with- 
out much injury ; and as I knew he did 
not mean to hurt fne, I neither murmured 
nor complained. Many have been killed 
with kindness; but it is so pleasant a 
kind of death, that most would envy it. 


39 


ji Family Bible. 

At the decease of the puritan, I was nut 
up to sale in a lot with Thomas Aquinas^ 
and some manuscripts against Poperx . A 
Jesuit 'Casting his eye on my companions, 
wished to be the purchaser, that he might 
have an opportunitv of destroy ing the im^ 
pious and heretical writings, which im- 
pugned the doctrines of the holy See. 
1 he poor manuscripts met with no quar- 
ter — they were immediately committed 
to the flames ; and English being little 
short of heresy, in my new masters 
opinion, 1 believe I was saved, rather out 
of regard to my binding than to my con- 
tents. Thomas Aquinas^ however, was 
treated with great distinction : and for 
the first time, I found that the works of 
man were more valued than those of his 
maker. I had some hopes that I might 
have been able to infuse a spark of Chris- 
tian charity into the Jesuit’s heart ; but 
the authority of the church, in his s ght, 
was more imperative than that on which 
it is pretended to be founded. I xx^as at 
best neglected ; till a young fellow xvho 
occasionally used to dispute xvith my 
owner against religion in general, taking 
a fancy to my exterior, and understanding 


40 


Adventures of 

no language save that in which I was 
printed, received me as a present — pro- 
bably in the hopes that I might have a 
chance of converting him to Christianity 
— and then the Jesuit might, with more 
facility, give him his own impression of it. 

Alas ! in the hands of this new and re- 
probate master, I e perienced not only 
neglect but insult. I was never opened, 
except to be turned into ridicule, among 
his free-thinking companions. But as 
free-thinking generally leads to free-action, 
— drunkenness, and every species of de- 
bauchery, soon set me free from the 
tyranny of this impious possessor — He 
early fell a martyr to his irregularities ; and 
in his last moments, seemed to wish to 
shew me some marks of his contrition ; 
but foil! d his time too short, to be fully 
satisfied of my celestial comforts. 

His mother was a worthy old woman ; 
and as I had belonged to a favourite, 
though an ungracious son, she highly va- 
lued me, as a relict ; but I must do her 
the justice to say, that she lived according 
to my rules, and left the world in peace ; 
firmly relying on the prospects which I 
held out in another and a better state. 


41 


A Family Bible. 

From this old lady, I passed into the 
-hands of her waitini^-maid, with a strict 
injunction to attend to me, and to be a 
good girl. For some weeks, I was not a 
little caressed : wherever love or marriage 
was mentioned, I was sure to be read ; 
and I was indeed consulted as an oracle, 
in all that relates to what this world calls 
pleasures. It was soon found, however, 
that I gave no sanction to the irregular sal- 
lies of the heart, to a perverse disposition, 
or a deceitful conduct ; and therefore I 
soon ceased to please. The last and lowest 
vice that can degrade woman — a propen- 
sity to tipplin in a short space made it 
convenient for Abigail to pawn me. I 
was wrapped up in a petticoat ; and, to- 
gether, we were received as pledges for a 
guinea. A commentator on the scriptures, 
many months after, passing the shop, 
where I lay, unredeemed, turned his at- 
tention towards me ; I appeared of a size 
fit for his purpose, and was bought a great 
bargain. 

None of those who had hitherto used 
me, had thought of soiling me ; but I was 
now filled with marginal notes and expia- 
tions. My light was frequently turned 


42 Adventures of 

into darkness ; and those expressions 
which the most ignorant might have un- 
derstood, were lost in a cloud of erudition, 
and tortured into meanings, which com- 
mon sense w^ould never have conceived. 
How ridiculous is the j.ride of human 
learning, when applied to support particu- 
lar tenets by scriptural annotations I Can 
it be supposed that my divine Author 
would have left any doubt or difficulty in 
his own injunctions ; or given a chance 
to none but the learned to understand, 
what he has commanded all to p actise ? 

During some years, it was the chief 
pursuit of this learned gentleman to st dy 
me, and to confound my meaning; or 
what was worse, to wrest it to his own pre- 
conceived opinions. He was, however, 
conscie* tious in what he did : he was 
blinded by his own sagacity — and as a 
monument of his labours, bequeathed me, 
at his death, to the college library, to 
which he had formerly belonged. 

Here I was admitted with great forma- 
lity — deposited in a fine latticed case, 
among many of my brethren ; and for 
some time was occasionally consulted : 
but novelty wearing off, and my commen- 


43 


A Family Bible. 

tator^s hand, by the lapse of years, and the 
different form of writing, becoming too 
cramp to be easily made out — for the last 
century I have seldom been opened. The 
dust, indeed, is annually brushed off ; and 
at the visitation of the library, I am some- 
times reported as full of old-fashioned 
comments ; but few have the curiosity to 
examine them. 

From this as} lum I have neither wish 
nor hope of being liberated : 1 trust I 
have already done my duty, and made se- 
veral persons better and wiser, in affairs of 
everlasting importance. If my history 
therefore should fail to amuse, it may pos- 
sibly instruct ; and this is all the distinc- 
tion I crave. 

The prejudices of men it was never my 
object to gratify, nor to flatter their pas- 
sions ; but happy are they, who entering 
into my benevolent views, lay hold on my 
eternal rewards. 


c 3 


44 


XV. THE ADVANTAGES OF ARITH- 
METIC. 

How much may be said in favour of 
any individual subject — and how often 
are the most useful things overlooked, 
merely because they are thought to be suf- 
ficiently oi Adous ! Of ail the sciences that 
engage the study of man, perhaps none is 
so essential or so valuable as arithmetic, 
or the science of numbers. This is in- 
deed sufficiently cultivated, by those 
whose intended sphere of life is supposed 
to require an accurate and ready know- 
ledge of its leading principles — but what 
is that situation, in which it is not abso- 
lutely necessary to be acquainted with its 
practical uses ? 

It has been observed, and I believe with 
great truth, that no one was ever undone, 
who kept an exact and regular account of 
his income and his expenditure. Unfore- 
seen and unavoidable calamities may, in- 
deed, surprise the most vigilant, and over- 
set the most methodical ; but few are the 
persons who fail in life from such impe- 
rious causes, compared to the vast num-i 


Advantages of Arithmetic* 4B 

bers of those, who may date their misfor- 
tunes from negligence in adjusting their 
accounts ; and who are therefore mined, 
before they perceive that they are in dan- 
ger. 

Let me, then, recommend it to you, my 
dear little readers, as you value peace of 
mind, independence, and fortune, to ac- 
quire an early facility in numbers, and a 
fixed habit of rendering them subservient 
to those purposes, which will secure you 
from the imposition of the cunning, and 
from the dangerous delusion of spending 
more than your circumstau'es will allow. 

Whatever your income may be, appor- 
tion it, with scrupulous exactitude, to 
your weekly, monthly, or yearly expences. 
It is impossible, indeed, to live in society 
according to one uniformly invariable te- 
nor ; but the extravagance of one day, 
should be compensated by the economy 
of the next ; and nothing short of abso- 
lute necessity, should induce you to inter- 
fere w ith the general arrangements, which 
a prudent regm^d to your circumstances 
imposes. 

It is almost impossible for any thinking 
person to run tlje heedless career of con- 


46 Advantages of Arithmetic. 

stant dissipation, who, by referring to his 
pocket-book, should his rank require no 
other books to be kept, sees on one side of 
a weekly page, his income or allowance, 
which he is to husband ; and on the oppo- 
site, his disposal of it. Keeping such a 
statement is not only a guard against pro- 
fusion ; but also a security against impo- 
sition. Thus what has been once paid 
may be easily authenticated ; and what 
has been improvidently spent may be re- 
medied in future. 

All the attention and the knowledge that 
this will require, are so trill ng, that no per- 
sons but the most illiterate and the most 
indolent can offer any excuse for their ne- 
glect. Indolence, however, can be no 
excuse for any omission of duty to our- 
selves or to society ; and the very lowest 
classes of mankind, whose misfortune it 
may be to be debarred from proper oppor- 
tunities of improvement in learning, sel- 
dom acquire so much credit as will injure 
others, or have so much to waste, as can 
materially affect themselves. Yet there 
is no situation, not even the lowest, that 
will not find a comfort and a benefit in ap- 
portioning its pittance to its expenditure ; 


Advantages of Arithmetic. 47 

and thus learning to find resources in hon- 
est industry, frugality, and prudence. It 
is chiefly, however, on hose who afe re- 
moved from real want, on those who are 
rich, or relatively so, that I wish to impress 
the observance of regular accounts. The 
father of a family, if he is negligent in this 
respect, is unworthy of the station he fills 
— the mistress of a house, who pays no 
regard to domestic expenditure, is proba- 
bly entailing want on the children she ca- 
resses, and can never be the object of love 
or esteem. 

The name of book-keeping, as this will 
be called, may possibly frighten the gay 
and the young. It may be supposed, that 
it requires deep attention, and much pre- 
vious knowledge ; but on what does it 
hinge ? on the four simple rules of arith- 
metic — Addition^ Substraction^ Multipli- 
cation., and Division. The Rule of Three 
or Proportion is also of very considerable 
use ; l)ut it is only a particular applica- 
tion of the rules already enumerated ; and 
its principles may be acquired with very 
little labour. 

Can any one then be justified, when his 
credit begins to fail, and the clamours of 
c 4 


48 Advajitages of Arithmetic. 

those he has injured, assail him, by allege 
ing, that he did not know he had exceed- 
ed his income ? Should even want stare 
him in his face, where is his apology ? He 
must, on reflection, be sensible how easily 
he might have known what was his inter- 
est and his duty to know; and if he has 
failed through inattention, he neither de- 
serves ■ he pity of his friends, nor can he 
enjoy the conscious satisfaction of having 
done what he ought. 

It is a Dutch maxim, and a good one, 
‘‘ that the man who has spent his whole 
income, has that year lived in vain but 
the man who has lived beyond his ii come, 
has not only been useless but criminal — 
he has involved himself in difficulties ; 
and without circumspection, he must de- 
fraud the public. By a due attention to 
numbers alone, can he learn in time how 
the case stands, and avoid the precipice ; I 
will therefore venture to affirm, that though 
all other sciences may be in some mea- 
sure, either useful or ornamental, to ac- 
quire an acquaintance with Arithmetic is 
an indispensable obligation which we owe 
to ourselves, our families, and society. 


49 


XVI. WILLIAM MELVILLE; OR, THE 
AMIABLE BOY. 

In some dispositions there is an inherent 
amiability, not the effect of education, but 
the gift of nature. In others, discipline 
and attentive cultivation so totally oblite- 
rate every unlovely quality, that it is dif- 
ficult to say, whether art or nature has 
been most propitious. Of the former 
stamp was the subject of the following lit- 
tle history ; and happy was it for himself, 
his parents, and his tutors, that he was 
born with so few evil propensities to cor- 
rect, and that the soil was so well suited for 
the reception of what education alone can 
give. 

William Melville was the eldest son of 
a man who had struggled hard with the 
world ; but who in every situation sup- 
ported an honest independent character. 
As he had much leisure and some learning 
it was his pleasure to give his children the 
first rudiments of education, and to train 
them up in those habits which were like- 
ly to facilitate the business of the master, 
whenever ti^ were put to school. He 


50 The Amiable Boxj» 

taught them, without the least harshness, 
the necessity of obedience ; he early made 
them sensible, that civility and respect 
were the most effectual means to render 
themselves beloved ; and that he who is 
indulged in foibles, however innocent, be- 
fore he has gained the use of his reason- 
ing faculties, will most probably give oc- 
casion for correction to break him of real 
faults, as he ady^ices towards maturer 
years. 

His eldest son, to whose history we 
shall confine ourselves on the present oc- 
casion, only required to have the right 
way pointed out to him, in order to his 
pursuing it. Indeed his temper was so 
mild, and his attachment to his parents so 
sincere, that nothing gave him so much 
pain as to offend, or so much satisfaction 
as to please. Nor did he carry those 
principles into action only where he owed 
duty : they wxre so natural to him, that 
withiout entering into improper familiarity 
with the domestics of his father’s family, 
he was entirely beloved by them all. he 
was never the cause of their being blamed, 
nor did he ever ask them to do him any 
favour, which could be inci^sistent with 


51 


The Arniahle Boy, 

their duty. When a child, they respect- 
ed his presence; and would have been 
ashanied to say or do any thing before 
him, which they imagined was unbecom- 
ing or wrong. 

It was a maxim with his father to fix 
the principles of his children, by furnish- 
ing an opportunity for their exertion. In 
order to teach him kindness to animals, 
he made him a present of a little dog and 
a goldfinch. The former was his con- 
stant companion in his walks ; the latter 
was duly fed and attended to, and his 
song well repaid the trouble. And that 
charity might not be a feeling of the mind 
alone, he had a weekly trifle allotted for 
the display of his benevolence. He was 
taught too, to discriminate objects as far 
as possible ; but it is not to be supposed 
a little boy could always exercise his judg- 
ment aright in this respect. The most 
clamorous sometimesextorted his bounty ; 
while it frequently happened, that he had 
nothing left but his tear or his pity, for 
the silent objects of misery. By degrees, 
however, he acquired some knowledge in 
distinguishing between real and fictitious 
claims to charity ; and as his powers of 


52 The Amiable Boy, 

bestowing were very limited, he began 
to lay out his little pittance with a more 
guarded attention to the wants he wished 
to relieve. 

In order that he might know the value 
of money (as necessary a science as can 
be learned !) his father laid out some tri- 
fling presents that had been occasionally 
made him in the purchase of a few im- 
proveable articles, the profits of which he 
was to receive. 

But he was obliged to keep an exact 
account of every farthing expended or re- 
ceived ; which at once perfected him in 
the science of numbers, and gave him an 
idea of managing his little property to the 
best advantage. Before he was twelve 
years of age, he could strike the balance 
of profit or loss with unerring certainty ; 
and this regularity to which he had been 
accustomed in pecuniary matters, was car- 
ried into all his pursuit^, whether of stu- 
dy or pleasure. The task prescribed was 
always finished in time, that it might not 
interfere with other engagements. He 
was always active, but never appeared in 
hurry or confusion. He followed method, 
yet was never formal Indeed^ to an in^ 


53 


The Amiable Botj. 

different spectator he would have seemed 
idle, as he generally had so much leisure 
from study ; but this >vas in consequence 
of superior diligence and assiduity till his 
business was completed, and a love of 
regularity, for the sake of the praise it 
gained him, and the pleasure it gave. 

Thus instituted, he was removed to a 
public school when about thirteen years of 
age, and placed on the foundation. Ha- 
bituated to the most tender treatment, and 
full of filial and fraternal affection, it is na- 
tural to suppose he did not leave his home, 
without a few silent tears. It argues in- 
sensibility rather than courage, to shew 
indifference on such an occasion. But 
though young Melville’s heart was full, 
and his eyes overflowed, not a word escap- 
ed his lips that w^as unworthy of the most 
dignified resolution. He had been duly 
instructed in his duty to his family and 
himself. He had been made acquainted 
with the motives which dictated this sepa- 
Hidon ; and saw his own good was con- 
nected with the prospect before him. He 
was not launched without principles, aiid 
they served as a guide to direct him. 


54 The Amiahle Boy^ 

In a few days, he found himself quite 
naturalized in his new situation. His 
companions soon discovered the unassum- 
ing^ modesty of his deportment, and his in- 
offensive manners ; and it was their plea- 
sure to communicate to him what infor- 
mation was necessary for a stranger to 
know. They soothed his apprehensions, 
and fortified his resolution. They took 
an interest in his welfare, because he 
seemed to place a generous reliance on 
their assistance ; and his masters, speedi- 
ly discerning how anxious he was to merit 
their good opinion, were neither strict to 
mark his involuntary lapses, nor severe to 
punish them. 

Before he had been six months at this 
seminary, he was the universal favourite. 
Both his masters and all the deserving 
among his school-fellows were his friends ; 
yet this excited neither envy nor opposi- 
tion from the rude and ill-disposed. He 
used no specious arts to conciliate favour 
or affection ; and each saw and confessed 
that it was his own fault, if he was not as 
well beloved as William Melville. 

At this school was the eldest son of a 
nobleman, who, though born to the high- 


55 


The Amiable Boy, 

cst expectations, did not forget that, the 
more distinguished his rank, the more re- 
quisite it was to adorn it by learning and 
virtue. Between him and Melville an in- 
timacy took place, which gradually ripen- 
ed into the sincerest friendship. Their 
hearts seemed to beat in unison. Nature 
had cast them in the same mould, though 
fortune had destined them to very diffe- 
rent spheres of action. Melville rejoiced 
in the happier prospects of his tfiend, 
without drawing idle and envious compa- 
risons. He knew that all could not fill 
the first characters in the drama of life, or 
the business of the world would soon 
stand still. He studied to qualify him- 
self to rise ; but he placed his hopes of 
success on his own merits, rather than on 
the assistance of others. 

1 His friend, however, was too warm in 
! his attachment not to mention him in the 
I most honourable terms to the peer. An 
i invitation to spend a vacation at his seat 
I was the consequence. 

! The noble parents of his friend were so 
i much pleased with his behaviour, that 
the y gave their son credit for his taste and 
discernment, in selecting such an amia- 


56 


The Amiable Boy. 

ble associate. This laid the foundation 
of Melville’s fortune. As he possessed 
none of those showy qualities which could 
impose on a first acquaintance, but those 
substantial virtues, which, the more they 
are developed, the better they are loved, 
when the young nobleman was removed 
to the university, the father of Melville 
was solicited to permit his son to accom- 
pany him. 

He hesitated not to comply, without 
any stipulation or question, though the ex- 
pence was an object, to a person of his ve- 
ry limited income, of deep and serious 
consideration ; but he disdained to sink 
himself or his child by a hint of this kind, 
as he was sensible his situation was well 
known ; and that it is the highest gratifi- 
cation to the truly noble, to confer a favour, 
without the painful homage of solicitation^ 
He had no reason to repent of his confi- 
dence. Means were found, without 
alarming the delicacy of either father or 
son, to make them both easy and comfort- 
able in this respect. The friends and 
companions of tlie school were still more 
strongly so that of the college ; and young 
?\Ielville having established his reputation 


57 


The Amiable Boy. 

for learning, probity, and the most pru- 
dent and praise- worthy conduct, was in 
the sequel engaged, at an ample allow- 
ance, as travelling tutor, or rather com| a- 
nion, to his noble associate. They visit- 
ed almost every country ol Europe wuh 
improved delight in each other’s societ\’ ; 
and when the young nobleman returned, 
and was called to fill a public station, ior 
which his abilities, his virtues, and his 
rank well qualified him ; Melville, who 
had entered into holy orders, was present- 
ed to the living of the parish in which the 
country mansion stood, and which had 
some years been held for him by another, 
without his knowledge. 

In this situation, he endeared himself 
still more to the family and to mankind, 
by his correct and meritorious behaviour ; 
and his noble friend, whenever it was in 
his p wer to retire for a short space from 
the service of his country, sought conso- 
lation in his society, and advice and assist- 
ance from his long-tricd wisdom and at- 
tachment. He might have risen higher 
in the church, had he wished it ; but he 
was wholly destitute of ambition, and 
would not listen to any overtures of ad- 


58 The Ocean and the Rivers* 


vancement. He had gained a compe- 
tence, and he asked no more. 

May every youth who copies the exam- 
ple of Melville, and adopts his principles, 
be equally fortunate in a patron ! And 
should it never be his happy lot to secure 
such a warm and generous protector, or 
to exhibit his virtues in a sphere where 
they can be known and adequately reward- 
ed, the still voice of approving conscience 
will whisper resignation and content, and 
heaven will be his recompense at last. 


XVII. THE OCEAN AND THE RIVERS, 
A FABLE. 

The Rivers having long paid their just 
and voluntary tribute to the Ocean, were 
at length spirited up to opposition by 
some stagnant pools, which being formed 
into canals, had found their way to the 
grand reservoir of waters. 

These upstart gentlemen, with a cha- 
racteristic pride, began to exclaim, 
“ What ! shall we who have been collect- 


7 %e Ocean and the Rivers, 5 9 

<?d uitli so much care, and conducted hi- 
ther with so much ex pence and art, lose 
our freshness in the briny wave ? Were 
we ris ers of magnitude, like the Danube, 
the Nile, the Ganges, and the Piata, we 
would soon teach the ocean to be a little 
more reasonable and polite ; and instead 
of converting every thing to its own filthy 
purposes without acknowledgment, we 
would make it known to whom it is in- 
debted for the consequence it assumes. 
For our parts w^e are ashamed of such 
tameness. Docs not the ocean deprive us 
of our sweetness and purity, and yet mo- 
nopolize the gratitude of surrounding na- 
tions, which is due to us alone? If it 
will not allow us to assert our natural 
rights in the scale of social union, we arc 
determined immediately to withdraw’’ our 
support from tlie voracious abyss that 
swallows us up, without mercy and with- 
out thanks. 

From this mean source, the murmurs 
of discontent arose. Tho:>e collected 
puddles had influence enough to spread 
tiieir disaftection among the noble streams. 
Some of the latter hoped to usurp the do- 
minion of the whole, and therefore sided 
c 6 


60 The Ocean and the Rivers, 

in the quairel. Each had his private 
views in what he did, or wished to do. 
Committees were formed — resolutions 
were passed, and deputations appointed. 
Memorials, remonstrances, and all the ar- 
tillery of political maneeuvres were deter- 
mined to be played off, against the venera- 
ble head of the waters. 

The Ocean heard of these meditated at- 
tacks; but heard them, unmoved. It 
knew the general good ; even the order 
of nature had sanctioned, and would main- 
tain its supremacy ; and on t is account, 
it did not fear the blind malice of igno- 
rant and impotent opposition. 

When deputations, however, arrived 
from the principal rivers, to state grievan- 
ces, and to demand redress, they were re- 
spectfully received. The firmness that 
will not yield to idle murmurs of discon- 
tent, and the pride that despises them, arc 
very different qualities, and should be dif- 
ferently appreciated. 

Having patiently listened to futile an^ 
unmeaning complaints, the mighty chief 
thus attempted to silence them : “ Gen- 
tlemen,” said the Ocean, “ after having so 
long enjoyed the uninterrupted liberty of 


'The Ocean and the Rivers. 61 

falling into my bosom, where by my che- 
mical power f preserve you from corrup- 
tion, and render you not only harmless, 
but useful in promoting the intercourse of 
nations — it is with surprize I hear your 
claims. W ere I to refuse taking you un- 
der my protection, what would be the 
consequence? — You must, in that case, 
overflow your banks, and deluge the coun- 
tries you now beautify and delight. Your 
streams would run counter one to the 
other — you would soon become tainted — 
and mankind would be destroyed by your 
unbridled violence, or by your pestilen- 
tial effluvia.’’ 

“ What is mankind to us!” exclaimed 
a little scanty stream. Hold,’^ replies 
the Ocean. “It is useless I see to waste 
words. If argument and mildness cannot 
bring you to reason, force, however un- 
pleasant to me, must. Till you a.^ree to 
flow in your accustomed channels, I will 
cut olF every secret communication that 
supplies your springs, and thus feeds your 
pride. Know, ye are entirely in my 
power : the favours I receive from you, 
are amply and gratefully repaid. From 
me at first you come ; and to me you 
must again return*” 


62 


XVIII. THE TUTOR TO HIS PUPILS. 

The subsequent poetical morceau was 
found in the port-folio of a veteran instruc- 
tor of youth : it is short, and therefore its 
moral is the more striking. The young 
may possibly doubt the justice of a max- 
im, which fascinating hope is fond of veil- 
ing from their eyes. Experience, how- 
ever, will prove it true. 

To you whose days in easy circles flow. 

Nor anxious cares, nor guilty passions know ; 
Whose ductile souls are studious to improve, 
And blend fair learning with your tutor’s love, 
The Muse devotes her moralizing strain. 

And speaks this long-tried truth — “ that Life is 
vain 

That half our years are sunk in sorrow’s shade ; 
That scarce we blossom — ere we’re doom’d to 
fade ; 

That Virtue, sole, illumes our darksome road, 
And guides thro* danger to the throne of God. 


63 


XIX. MAY. A RHAPSODY. 

Hail, parent of vegetative beauty ! pro- 
pitious mother of love, all hail ! From se- 
renest skies, borne on the wings of the 
gentle zephyrs, descend to earth, and dif- 
fuse thy benignant influence over animate 
and inanimate nature. At thy approach, 
the loves and the graces quit their brumal 
retreats, and, fresh with immortal youth 
and beaut}^, display their captivating 
charms to admiring mortals. The fays and 
fairies nimbly trip the green in noct urnal 
sport, under thy radiant empire; while 
the human ear in fancy is regaled with ce- 
lestial melody. 

Kind restorer of nature, in what ade- 
quate terms shall I address thee 1 Shall I 
call thee the fairest of months that rule 
the circling year ; or will the name of love- 
ly Maia sound most delightful in thy ears ? 
fiursting from the bosom of the earth, 
flo wers of a thousand dyes open their buds 
to do thee homage, and spread a variegat- 
ed carpet for thy feet. The trees protrude 
their leaves ; the blossoms, rich in snowy 
white, welcome thy viviiying reign ; and 


64 May. A Rhapsodi}. 

nature, which lately appeared dormant 
and dead, wakes from its trance \nth reno- 
vated charms, and displays all its energies 
in thy honour. 

To thee the plumy tenants of the grove 
pour out their sweetest descant ; and in 
choral harmony, led by the trilling Philo- 
mel, sing the wonders of thy creative 
power, and the felicities of thy delightful 
sway. Love resounds through the forests ; 
and the sound of joy vibrates on every 
gale ; while, to the enraptured eye, the 
immortal powers, presiding over bliss, are 
seen hovering in the air with placid wing; 
and seeming to participate of the delights 
which thy bounteous influence imparts. 

The wild beasts of the desart lift up 
tlieir heads, and behold the profusion of 
thy stveets. O May ! they listen — and 
the charms of music soften their native 
ferocity ; while sensations of pleasure shed 
a new and unusual mildness on their as- 
pects. 

Parent of all that is lovely — of all that 
is endearing. Thy divinity is felt in e- 
very breast ; and every tongue is vocal 
in thy praise. I'he young feel their joys 
sublimed under thy genial sway : the old 


65 


May. A Rhapsody, 

are invited to retaste the feast, at which 
they revelled before. Under thy influ- 
ence, beauty shines with more exalted 
tints ; love binds with more welcome 
chains ; and even the woelorn heart beats 
with the transient throbs of delight. The 
bosom that now glows in thy praise, owes 
all its raptures to thee. While this heart 
exults at the prospect of thy charms, it 
gains a temporary relaxation from misery 
— Well, then, may my voice be raised to 
thy honour ! Thy balm is the opiate of 
my tortured soul. 

Once more on thee I call, O Maia ! 
pour thy gentle spirit on every breast, 
bind discord in thy flowery chains, and 
melt the obdurate mind. Raise the em- 
pire of love on the only solid basis of 
virtue and friendship ; and teach man- 
kind to be happy, by becoming benevo- 
lent and kind. 

Alas ! man alone of all created things 
is rebellious against thee. Thy smiles 
cannot always win him to complacency, 
nor meliorate his soul. He indulges those 
passions which thy mild power disclaims ; 
he shuts his bosom against those emotions, 
which thou art best pleased to impress?. 


66 May. A Rhapsody. 

The malignant passions of revenge, env}> 
and uncharitableness, are not less ungrate- 
ful to thee, than it would be to see the 
frosts of winter ravaging thy flowers, and 
despoiling their richest sweets. 

V\ hen will man awake to a sense of his 
own felicity ! When will he learn to be vir- 
tuous ai d happy ! To him who harbours 
malice, or prides himself in enmity, thy 
visits, lovely May, are a source of pain ; 
and he only gathers the thorns which 
lurk under thy fairest flowers. 

Thee, again, I invoke for protection 
and joy. Warm my breast with social 
love, pure as the gales that fan the bosom 
of the new- clad earth ; bend every dis- 
cordant passion to thy will ; and teach me 
to smile at pain and grief. Bless my 
heart with mutual affection, my eyes with 
the presence of love ; so shall thy divinity 
as oft as it revisits the earth, receive my 
hymns of congratulation ; so shall thy 
sway be extended over less lovely days ; 
and the circling months that fill the varied 
year imbibe a portion of thy ethereal es- 
sence 


67 


XX. PERSEVERANCE. 

It cannot be too frequently inculcated 
on youth, that persevering diligence is the 
only method they can take, and all that is 
^vanted, to render them eminent in learn- 
ing, and successful in life. Genius is that 
rare quality which few possess, and fewer 
apply to any beneficial purpose. It can, 
indeed, enable a man to attain the heights 
of science with little effort, and at a single 
bound to leave the toiling multitude be- 
hind ; but its motions are too frequently 
desultory and irregular ; and therefore it 
is rather to be admired than envied. — 
Those who have been distinguished for 
sujx^rior intellect, in general, have also 
been most remarkable for their misfortunes 
and their follies. I’his, it mu t be allow- 
ed, is not the inevitable fate of genius ; 
but alas ! it is too frequently a natural 
consequence of its gifts. 

The man who can Lutuitively compre- 
hend the whole extent oi human know- 
ledge, who can fathom the depths of sci- 
ence with a glance, is cast in a mould that 
render., him unfit to herd with ordinary 

VOL. I. n 


68 


Ferscverance. 


beings, and join in the routine of common 
avocatio^ is. His flights are too bold to be 
under the guidance of prudence. He 
soars, and likewise sinks beyond the 
bounds of sober sense ; and is more fre- 
quently the object of pity than of love and 
veneration. 

Far be it from me, however, to repress 
those noble sallies of the soul that raise 
the man above the mortal. I would onl}'^ 
wish to see superior mental endowments 
directed to views worthy of them — to 
vi ws that would render them estimable 
to the public, and productive of indivi- 
dual happiness. Yet the history of the 
w^orld presents more proofs of failure from 
original capacity than from the want of 
it — more instances of splendid miserv than 
of real felicity as its concomitants. Hence, 
were genius more generally the lot of man 
than it is, I know not if it eight to be 
considered as a greater blessing or a curse. 

Perseverance, however, is a sure and 
safe principle of action. It makes its way 
through surrounding ob:»tacles, without 
incurring envy or risque ; because appli- 
cation is here indispensable ; and every 
person is ready to acknowledpe, that toil 


Perseverance, 


69 


ought to be rewarded ; and to confess that 
it is his own fault, if he does not attain 
the same distinctions which await its ef- 
forts. Besides, the noblest discoveries, 
the most praise- worthy performances, and 
the most useful attainments, have com- 
monly originated from a mediocrity of ta- 
lents diligently cultivated. And as the 
acquisition of public respect and private 
happiness is the strongest stimulus to 
laudable endeavours, th^ se cannot be bet- 
ter secured, than by pursuing with un- 
wearied zeal the steady path ol duty. 

When difficulties obstruct the pro ress 
of the young and unexperienced, in their 
studies or other pursuits, they are too apt 
to despond, and think them insuperable : 
but they ought to reflect, that industry and 
application will make that appear . asy to- 
moiTow, which was so difficult to-day — 
that he who is soon discouraged, neither 
deserves nor is likely to ensure success — 
and finally, that lew things are unattain- 
able by those, who to a common capacity 
join indefatigable perseverance. 


70 


XXI. ?REVAILING AMUSEMENTS IN- 
DICATIVE OF NATIONAL CHARAC- 
TER; WITH JAVANESE ANECDOTES. 

The amusements of nations and indi- 
viduals are general!} the best index to their 
characters, and show their progress in re- 
finement, or their mersion in barbarity. 
Among all uncivilized people, thtre has 
ever been a strange and unaccountable par- 
tiality for ferocious exhibitions and cruel 
combats between men and men, between 
men and beasts, or between one savage 
animal and another. The ancient Ro- 
mans, even in the zenith of their glory and 
civilization, were attached to shows of 
gladiators, and to conflicts of wild beasts ; 
a sufficient indication of their martial 
spirit and their want of a generous sensi- 
bility. To this very day, the Spaniards 
delight in bull feasts, in which the assail- , 
ants are exposed to such imminence of 
danger, that it might be supposed none 
but the most brutal minds could bear to 
witness the scene. In regard to that na- 
tion, however, there is something anoma- 
lous in the predilection tliey entertain of 


National Character^ 


71 


such pastimes. They certainly are not 
eminent for courage, nor are the modern 
Spaniards of a disposition remarkably cru- 
el ; we must therefore suppose that the 
circumstance we have noticed, originates 
from their political institutions, their for- 
mer intercourse with the iXiOors, and the 
slow advances they have made in learning 
and science. In our own country, cock- 
fighting, and bear and bull- baiting, were 
formerly favourite though disgraceful di- 
versions ; and pugilism still finds so many 
patrons and admirers, as almost to bring 
a stigma on our national taste and man- 
ners. The good sense, hov^ever, t; e de- 
licacy and refinement of by far the greater 
part of our countrymen, aided by the au- 
thority of the laws, are soon likely to put 
an end to combats only fit for savages to 
behold ; and our public manners are cer- 
tainly as free f om any considerable impu- 
tation of a tendency to cruelty, as those of 
m r St nations on the face of the globe. 

Indeed throughout tlie greater part of 
I hi rope, a pure religion and the nfluence 
of knowledge have given a soft colouring 
to amusements in general ; and it is only 
among barbarous and remote nations, that 


f2 National Character. 

a partiality for spectacles of cruelty re- 
mains. 

In some of the oriental regions, the 
princes and grandees still amuse the lan- 
guor of tasteless or sensual enjoyment, 
by the most barbarous e hibitions, which 
are conducted with a magi ificence worthy 
of sublimer pursuits. According to Sta- 
vorinus, in his voyages to the East Indies, 
combats between wild beasts is the fa- 
vourite amusement of the Javanese empe- 
rors. We extract the following passage 
from that entertaining publication. It is, 
no doubt, indefensible, on any good prin- 
ciple, to receive pleasure from setting one 
irrational animal upon another ; but when 
even the criminal of our own species is 
wantonly exposed to the jaws of the tiger, 
in order to amuse brutal speetdtors, it ar- 
gues such a degree of moral depravity, 
such a destitution of fellow-feeling, as 
must make us ashamed, that any person 
bearing “ the human form divine,” should 
be guilty of it, or receive gratification from 
a display so repugnant to hiimanit\ 

When a tiger,” says tliisvovager, “and 
a buffalo are to tight together for the 
amusement of the court, they are both 


National Character, 


73 


brought upon the field of combat in large 
cages. The field is surrounded by a body 
of Javanese, four deep, with levelled pikes, 
in order that if the creatures endeavaair 
to break tlirongh, they may be killed im- 
mediately ; this, however, is not so easily 
effected ; for many of these j3oor wretches 
are torn in pieces, or dreadfully wounded 
by the enraged animals. 

“ When every thing is in readiness, the 
cage of the buffalo is first opened at the 
top, and his back is rubbed with certain 
leaves, which possess the si igular quality 
of occasioning an intolerable degree of 
pain, and which, from the use they are ap- 
plied to, have been called buffalo-leaves 
by our people. The door of the cage is 
then opened, and the animal leaps out, 
raging with pain, and roaring most dread- 
fully. 

“ The cage of the tiger is then likewise 
Opened, and fire :s thrown into it, to make 
the beast quit it, which he does generally 
running backwards. 

“ As soon as the tiger perceives the 
buffalo, he springs upon him ; while his 
huge opponent stands e pecting him, with 
his horns upon the ground, to catch him 


74 


JSational Character. 


upon them, and throw him in the air. If 
the buffalo succeed in this, and the tiger 
recover from his fall, he generally loses 
every wish of renewing the combat ; and 
if the tiger avoid this first attempt of the 
buffalo, he springs upon the latter, and 
seizing him in the neck, or other parts, 
tears the flesh from his bones ; in most 
cases, however, the buffalo is victorious. 

“ The Javanese who must perform the 
dangerous office of making these animals 
quit their cages, may not, when they have 
done, notwithstanding they are in great 
danger of being torn in pieces by the en- 
raged beasts, leave the open space, before 
they have saluted the emperor several 
times, and his majesty has given them a 
signal to depart : they then retire slowly, 
for they are not permitted to walk fast, to 
the circle, and mix with the rest of their 
countrymen. 

“The emperors likewise sometimes 
make criminals condemned to death, fight 
with tigers. In such cases, the man is rub- 
bed with horri^ or tumeric, and has a yel- 
low piece of cloth put round him ; a kr\s 
is then given to him, and he is conducted 
to the field of combat. 


National Character, 


75 


“ The tiger, which has for a long time 
been kept fasting, falls upon the man with 
the greatest fur} , and generally strikes him 
down at once with his paw ; but if he be 
fortunate enough to avoid this, and to 
wound the animal, so that it quits him, 
the emperor then commands him to attack 
the tiger, and the man is then generally 
the victim ; and even if he ultimately suc- 
ceed in killing his ferocious antagonist, he 
is still subjected to the punishment of 
death. 

“ An officer in our company’s service, 
who had long been stationed at the courts 
of the Javanese emperors, related to me, 
that he was once witness to a most extra- 
ordinar}’ occurrence of this kind ; namely, 
that a Javanese who had been condemned 
to be torn in pieces by tigers, and for that 
purpose, had been thrown down from the 
top, into a large cage, in which several ti- 
gers were confined, fortunately fell exactly 
upon the largest and fiercest of them, across 
whose back he sat astride, without the an- 
imal doing him any harm, and even on the 
contrary, appearing intimidated ; while the 
others also, awed by the unusual posture 
and appearance which he made, dared not 


76 The Silly Question Defended, 

attempt to destroy him. He could not, 
however, avoid the punishment of death, 
to which he had been condemned ; for the 
emperor commanded him to be shot dead 
in the cage.” 

l"ake these instances of wanton cruelty, 
out of numbers that might be produced, 
and bless that kind Providence which or- 
dered your lot in more civilized and there- 
fore happier regions ! 


XXII. THE SILLY q^CJESTION DE- 
TENDED. 

An observant boy, passing along a 
street, saw a sign hanging before an inn, 
on hich ^vas painted, Entertainment for 
Man and Horse, What aniusing tricks, 
thicks he, can be exhibiu d k re — how are 
horses to be entertained? The idea of 
play was inseparable Injm the association 
hi: mind had formed. He could not rest, 
h( wever, till he had put the question to his 
father, about the “ entertainment of hor- 
ses and n hen he had obt:iined an ex- 
planation, he was next at a loss to con- 


The Sillij Question Defended. 7? 

ccive, how one word, as it appeared to 
him, should be used in such op .osite ac» 
ceptations. 

You will probably smile, my young 
readers, at this ; and think the boy was 
very silly. I tell you he was not : his cu- 
riosity was a laudable one ; his observa- 
tion on what struck his senses, shewed 
that he possessed an ambition to know 

I more ; and how was he, in such a case, 
to receive information, but by asking for 
it ? 

A proper acquaintance with things, 
when only casually obtained, is long in ac- 
quiring. Thousands overlook objects 
which every day fall in their way ; and 
perhaps, to the en t of their lives, are igno- 
rant of the properties of many articles, and 
the meaning of many terms, in common 
use, merely for want of reflection. 

To ask questions, provided they are not 
impertinent ones, argues a thirst for 
knowledge, and is one of the readiest 
means of 1 ying in a stock of correct ideas. 

Never, tliLn, be ashamed to ask, vi^hat 
is proper to be asked ; nor to say 
^vhat ought to be said. Ignorance is no 
disgrace, till the means of obtaining infor- 


78 The Silly Question Defended. 

mation have been neglected; and early 
youth, having every thing to learn, can 
never be reflected on, uni ss it suffers the 
season and the opportunity to pass, unim- 
proved and unregarded. 

When in company with your parents 
and tutors, apply to them respectfully, 
when you are at a loss : they will love and 
admire you for the anxiety you display of 
becoming wiser. But in wishing to be- 
come wiser, study also to become better. 
All your acquirements without goodness, 
will be of no avail. Try to employ what- 
ever learning you possess to some bene- 
ficial purpose — to be a guide to yourself, 
or to enlighten others. 

Utility and ornament ought to be the 
objects of ^ very study, as they are the 
only valuable fruits of all knowledge. 


79 


XXIII. ARISTARCHUS ; OR THE 
CRITIC^. 

To the honour of the present age be it 
known, that criticism, which was, ancient- 
ly possessed by few, because it was sup- 
posed to require depth of erudition, a re- 
fined taste, and a penetrating judgment, 
is now like medicine, in the hands of nu- 
merous practitioners. The difficulties 
attending its original practice are now in- 
[ deed obviated, by an entire change of ob- 
I jects. Formerly the art was used to dis- 
I play beauties, and modesty to propose 
I amendments, where judgment had fiiiled, 

! or genius had deviated from the laws of 
taste ; but at present, faults only are sought 
after, as hogs delight in filth — beauties 
are passed over with an envious eye ; and 
a piece which affords no room for caustic 

* If this essay ridicule false pretensions to 
criticism, let it not be perverted to an attempt 
to lessen the well-earned fame of competent 
judges of literary merit. Among the young, in 
particular, a propensity to criticise words, or to 
condemn in the gross what they do not under- 
stand, is too perceptible — for such only this was 
written i 

B 3 


80 


Aristarchus, 


criticism or witty remark, is deemed un- 
worthy of notice. 

When tlie modt rn critic discovers a 
poor unfortunate word unprotected by 
great alliances, and unwarranted by grave 
authorities, he hunts it down without mer- 
cy, though it sometimes costs him a long 
chase before the death. But he is as cau- 
tious of attacking sentences^ as the cow- 
ard would be of 0[)posiiig a man of known 
courage, or the general, of risquing a bat- 
tle with inferior numbers. Punctuation^ 
however, is the strong-hold of piddling 
critics of modern days. A man of supe- 
rior genius is not always careful to ^valk in 
measure, or to adjust his steps to the rules 
of a dancing- master ; neither is he stu- 
dious, in the ardour of composition, to 
place Mr. Comma^ where Mr. Comma 
ought to be placed ; nor Mr. Colon^ where 
the laws of precedence allow him to rank. 
But oversiglits of this kind are frequently 
of the most serious consequence to an un- 
fortunate author ; he is as much censur- 
ed for his inattention to the aforesaid gen- 
tl men, as if he had offended against goc^d 
manners, neglected the established rules 
of society, and acted like a Hottentot, 


Aristarchus. 


81 


Nor must we forget, that transposition 
is . rich field for critical acumen. As 
this dc pends entirely on the taste, and taste 
i'. often capricious, a clause of a sentence, 

I like some tables for artificial versifying, 
may be transposed as many ways as it 
contains words ; and yet all be right. 
But it is not sulficient that the sense be 
clear and entire ; if it does not please the 
critic’s ear, which is often as incapable of 
distinguishing a melod ous cadeno , as a 
sow is of playing on a violin, it must be 
put into the bed of Procrustes, and am- 
putated or extended, according to the pre- 
cise idea of the literary tyrant. 

Thus it will appear, that a tolerable 
knowdedge of words, of punctuation, trans- 
position, and cadence, is sufficient to qua- 
I lily a man, in this age, to set up for a di- 
I rector of the public taste, a guide to the 
ignorant, and a light to the blind. To 
judge of spirit and propriety in the gross, 
is neither the Jortc nor the aim of our pre- 
sent critics. They seldom deal in whole- 
sale ; but keep a kind of retail shop, from 
which they vend their commodities, by 
the ounce or penny-worth. Hence the 
market is overstocked: we have more 
critics than authors ; more authors than 


82 


Aristarchus. 


readers ; and more readers than compre- 
hend the meaning of what they read. 

Of all the numerous critics, however^ 
who now buz like wasps about the ears of 
authors, the rise of none seems more ex- 
traordinary than that of Aristarchus. 
This gentleman, who has stabbed many 
a better writer than himself, w^^s the son 
of an Irish weaver, born in the wilds of 
Connaught, and habituated to his native 
brogue, till he was nearly thirty years of 
age. About that period of his eventful 
life, a scarcity oi potatoes and employ- 
ment happening about the same time, he 
came over to England ; and as England 
is open to all the world, Aristarchus, soon 
after his arrival in London, had the good 
fortune, by dint of assurance and an ap- 
pearance of strength, to get himself ap- 
pointed porter to a bookseller. In this 
situation, he might be truly called a man 
of letters ; since he often carried on his 
head, though not in it, the works of the 
most celebrated authors of our age. He 
now sometimes ventured to look at a title- 
page and many critics go no farther: the 
title-page, tempted him to read the address 
to the public, and thinking that his address 
was as bold and as plausible as that of 


Aristarchus‘s 


83 


any, he was instigated to go a little far- 
ther, and began to judge of propiety by 
self-taught rules : for the name of the cri- 
tical Aristotle had never reached his ears. 
Being often entrusted with corrected 
proofs to carry to the press, he had an op- 
portunity of seeing the whole arcana, as 
he thought, of the critic’s art. Points, 
words, transpositions, all appeared there, 
marshalled according to typographical or- 
der. The soul of Aristarchus was warm- 
ed with emulation. He studied first 
proofs, wuth the same delight that the cu- 
nous collect first impressions ; and though 
often in the true Paddean style, he , ut the 
cart before the horse, and corrected the 
author, w here the author was not wrong ; 
yet by this habit of blotting, he contract- 
ed a rooted aversion Ij any copy, howe- 
ver perfect, passing without his alterations 
and remarks. 

Having now gained some confidence in 
his own strength, and being regarded by 
the trade as a bit of a judge, he set up at 
once for a director of taste, and a censor of 
literature. His decisions were published 
with all the insolence of ignorance ; and 
as it would have been vain and even igno- 

D 4 


84 


The Contrast, 


minious to reply to his strictures, he has 
long reigned supreme in his line of criti- i 
cism ; which is wholly confined to single 
words, points, and transpositions ; to the 
substitution of barbarous brogue and un- 
natural cadence, for sterling English, and 
pleasing harmon}'. 


XXIV. THE conteast: 

HECATISSA AND AMANDA. 

Characters are a kind of mirrors, i/i 
which mental beauties or defects may be 
advantageously viewed. But the misfor- 
tune is, that the worst deformity of the 
mind, though a thousand times more dis- 
gusting and disgraceful than that of the 
person, does not strike the party w ith the 
same consciousness of defect, as a single 
pimple on the face. What is not imme- 
diately visible, or is best k own to one- 
self, some are weak enough to imagine 
may be concealed from others. A Heca- 
tissa has more j)rlde than an Amanda ; 
ai)d notwithstanding the contrast, will still 
think hersell the best entitled to regard. 


The Contrast, 


85 


Hecatissa is not ordinary and she tliinks 
herself handsome. Vanity and obstinacy 
have been the grand source of her errors 
and her misfortunes. Nature gave her a 
very limited degree of understanding ; 
and education was not called in, till too 
late to improve it. By early indulgence, 
she became obstinate and perverse ; and 
her passions being as strong as her reason 
was weak, her first attachments were low 
— her mind became debased by the com- 
pany with which she associated, and this 
stamped her character for ever. 

She had several admirers at a distance ; 
but acquaintance always dissipated the 
delusion of her appearance. A temper, 
naturally violent and unamiable, was in- 
flamed by repeated desertion ; and when 
she found that she was incapable of secur- 
ing lovers, she determined to be no long- 
er lovely. Jealous, suspicious, and dis- 
tant, she now views her sincercst friends 
and most faithful advisers with marked 
aversion ; and frequently treats them witli 
insult. Judging from the depravity of 
her own heart, she sees, or thinks she sees, 
a selfish design even in the monitions of 
friendship, and the offers of generosity ; 


86 


The Contrast. 


and is never so well pleased as when the 
low insinuations of interested flattery are 
directed to the abuse of her own connex- 
ions, or to confirm the vicious habits, and 
to sanction the inveterate prejudices in 
which she delights to indulge. 

The ties of blood and the calls of duty 
are alike ineffectual to restrain her malevo- 
lence, or to awaken her feelings. Her feel- 
ings indeed are only for herself ; though 
affectation and artifice are used to cover 
the insensibility of her heart. To stran- 
gers she can still occasionally wear the 
mask of affability and good-humour ; but 
a few visits always tear it aside, and the 
native deformity of her mind appears in 
its most hideous aspect. Yet never will 
she confess, or think herself wrong. In 
her own estimation, she alone acts right ; 
and whoever will not allow this, is imme- 
diately branded as an enemy. Indeed 
she has the vanity to think that mankind 
are linked in enmity against her, as if she 
were an object of some consequence in 
the world’s eye ; but few regard the ill 
opinion of Hecatissa ; and as for her good 
opinion, it cannot be Avon, u ithout for- 
feiting one’s own. 


The Contrast, 


87 


Such ai*e the fatal effects of obstinacy, 
grafted on ignorance — of an ill4emper, 
under the influence of a beggarly pride. 

Amanda is rather comely than beauti- 
ful. Her looks are the invariable index 
of her mind : they express mildness and 
serenity, mixed, with the most amiable 
sensibility. 

Tutored in the school of parental au- 
thority, wisely exerted, she early knew 
how to bend to circumstances, and patient- 
ly to submit to controul. — If her study to 
oblige others, rather than to please herself, 
did not appear to be a native impulse of 
her heart, her behaviour might be ascrib- 
ed to the effects of education. Instruc- 
tion, indeed, confirmed the original love- 
ly bias of the mind : it called the latent 
principles of goodness into action — it im- 
proved her taste, and extended her know- 
ledge ; but it planted neither — they were 
the denizens of her breast from her birth. 

The best qualities of the heart, however, 
rather fix friends than originally win them. 
Intimacy alone can appreciate the value 
of mental charms ; the attractions of the 
person frequently allure at first sight. 
Amanda was less anxious to gain ad- 


88 


The Contrast. 


mirers than to preserve friends. She pos- 
sessed an easy indifference to neglect, or to 
flattery. If the former at any time was 
shewn by those unacquainted with her 
worth, she felt no resentment ; if the in- 
cense of the latter was offered up to her, 
it did not intoxicate her senses. 

Fearful of offence, she never made an 
enemy, except among the worthless — stu- 
dious to please, she never lost a friend a- 
mong the good. Loved by her connexions 
with a tenderness as warmly returned ; en- 
deared to her intimates by a thousand 
lovely qualities, and respected by all, 
whose respects is worth a care, what can 
human nature wish for more ? 

Is not Amanda happy ; or rather does 
she not deserve to be so ? Yes ! that hu- 
mility which represses sanguine hopes, 
that equability of temper which common 
incidents cannot ruffle, tliat benignity of 
mind which inspires candour and confi- 
dence, give her the best chance and the 
highest title to the enjoyment of felicity ; 
and who will not join in the wish, that 
such lovely virtues may ^ever lose their 
reu^ardc 


Geography, 


89 


REFLECTION. 

A good temper, joined to a mild dispo- 
sition, is the only charm that can bind 
the willing heart — without this, even vir- 
tue is unamiable, and beauty disgusting. 


Beauty, though we all approve. 
Commands our wonder more than love ; 
While the agreeable strikes sure, 

And gives those wounds we cannot cure. 


XXV. GEOGRAPHY. 

If to enlighten and to expand the hu- 
man mind, to remove the shades of igno- 
rance, and to open fresh avenues of know- 
ledge, be the chief ends of science ; no 
branch of it, in my opinion, embraces a 
wider circle, and offers a more extensive 
combination of^thosc desirable objects 
than Geography. 


90 Geography. 

Even its fundamental principles are of 
the greatest utility in the daily avocations 
of life. To be well acquainted with the 
general divisions of land and water, the 
sub-divisions of empires, kingdoms, and 
states, the names of places, and their res- 
pective situations, is a branch of know- 
ledge which it is impossible to want, with- 
out the self- conviction of the grossest igno- 
rance and inattention. But this is one of 
the least important provinces of Geogra- 
phy. Our acquisitions so far are solely 
those of memory : the judgment lies dor- 
mant, and fancy slumbers. 

But, when from an acquaintance with 
the names and terms of the art, e ris to 
the sublime contemplations it invites ; 
when we consider the earth as peopled 
wdth various nations ; and acquire an in- 
sight into their manners, religion, govern- 
ment, and pursuits, then Geography as- 
sumes a most attractive form, and fills the 
mind with ideas worthy of its powers. 

If we regard this science only as an use- 
ful auxiliary to trade, it is no insignificant 
acquisition. To be well acquainted with 
the natural and artificial productions of 
countries, tlieir manufactures, exports and 


91 


Geography, 

imports, is an important consideration. 
But the student must not stop here ; he 
must enlarge his conceptions by institut- 
ing comparative researches into men and 
manners ; he must trace the origin and 
influence of laws, the efiects of civiliza- 
tion and modes of life through all their ob- 
liquities and variety of shades, and while 
he indulges in those extensive speculations 
I he may from what is good, deduce max- 
I ims to regulate his own conduct or to en- 
I lighten others — from what is bad, he may 
learn to avoid the errors that human frailty, 
aided by prejudice, has so abundantly 
disseminated over the globe — and pity 
where he cannot admire. 

The Hottentot and the I'artar, in the 
dawn of reason, with barely the features of 
men, and still remote from civilization and 
refinement, w ill excite reflections on w hat 
human nature is when destitute of learning 
and the arts. The absurd theology of bar- 
barous nations, w'here the fantastic figure 
orNumbo Jumbo, a Snake or an Insect, 
is the object of divine adoration, w ill dis- 
play the sublimity of that religion, which 
is founded on a sense of infinite perfection 
and almighty powder, and refers all to a su- 


92 


Geography, 


perintending Providence. The savage 
institutions of many kingdoms, where man 
is degraded to the slave, and cruel caprice 
rather than legitimate authority is the fluc- 
tuating rule of action, will teach the value 
of government founded in law, and sup- 
ported by social order. 

If prejudice has taken hold on the heart, 
— and where is that heart in which it is to- 
tally unknown ! it cannot be better eradi- 
cated, than by viewing nations under the 
influence of customs and laws different 
from our own ; yet, perhaps, on inquiry, 
best adapted to situation, climate, and na- 
tive predilections. 

To confine all excellence totlie country 
in which we were born — to deny merit to 
all those who do not think and act, exact- 
ly in the same train as we do, is the pro- 
perty of a narrow soul ; but to love our 
own country best, and to study to promote 
its interests, and extend the honour of its 
name, is compatible with the finest feelings 
and the most Christian Charity. It en- 
nobles us as men and citizens ; and is one 
of the most essential public duties. 

In all those points of view, Philosophic 
Geography, to use a new epithet, if diilv 


J\exvspap€rs» 93 

attended to, Avill serve for an instructor 
and guide. In short, it is the science of 
life and manners, of laws and government ; 
and is as useful to the man, as it is orna- 
mental to the scholar. 


XXVI. NEWSPAPERS. 

Would parents and tutors be careful to 
put a well-conducted and chaste newspa- 
per in the way of ingenious youth, they 
would find it lead to great and rapid im- 
provements in the science of life and man- 
ners, with the least possible trouble to 
i themselves. Novelty has sufficient attrac- 
I tions for the young ; and such a literary 
1 dessert might be made a matter of favour, 

I which would give a higher relish to itsen- 
1 joyment. 

I The subsequent essay is intended to en- 
j courage this mode of promoting juvenile 
I j)roficiency ; and to stimulate the mana- 
gers of such publications, to render them 
meet for the eye of unsuspecting inno- 
cence. 


9 1 Newspapers, 

Among the various causes that have 
contributed to the general diffusion of 
knowledge in the present age, nothing 
seems to have been of more importance, 
than the circulation of so many different 
newspapers. A superficial observer will 
perhaps smile at this opinion. When he 
considers what slender abilities are general- 
ly employed in the compilation of some, 
what prejudice is displayed in the conduct 
of others, and what factious principles are 
disseminated through this medium, he 
will, probably, be surprised that a news- 
paper, however well it may be conducted, 
should come in for such distinguished ap- 
plause. 

But where is the good that may not be 
perverted to evil ? the blessing that may 
not be abused ? Excess of liberty de- 
generates into licentiousness — and too 
great indulgence in the pleasures of the 
table may prove as fatal, as swallowing the 
most deleterious poisons. 

It is well known, that within these few 
years, diurnal publications have been mul- 
tiplied to an amazing degree ; and their 
characters for taste in arrangemert and 
elegance in composition, in some measure, 


95 


Newspapers. 

keep pace with their numbers. Competi- 
tion begets exertion ; and those who hope 
that their writings shall be read and their 
labours patronized, study to adorn them 
with all the charms of polished diction, 
and the attractive graces of novelty. 

The information that newspapers for- 
merly conveyed was trivial ; and the cir- 
culation was proportionally confined^. 
The learned, the rich, or the idle alone, 
thought of encouraging them, about half 
a century ago ; now all ranks and des- 
criptions of men, read, study, and en- 
deavour to comprehend the intelligence 
they convey, and too often adopt the 
I principles they recommend, without exa- 
I mination ; and act on them, as if they 
I were sanctioned by irrefragable authority. 

1 This no doubt, is an unfortunate circum- 
stance : but it is in some measure re- 
medied by the contrary opinions of con- 
tending journalists ; and truth and justice 
may generally be found, by comparing 
difterent statements, and keeping the mid- 
dle course, between both extremes. 

* As an object of finance, newspapers at this 
period are of considerable value. They yield 
not less than half million annually to the re- 
venue. 

D 6 


96 Newspapers* 

It is dangerous for those only, who read 
but one paper, and that paper is made the 
vehicle of false principles and delusive rea- 
soning ; or where original prejudice gives 
a wrong bias to the mind ; and thus con- 
verts even salutary caution to criminal in- 
temperance. 

On the other hand, a paper conducted 
on proper religious and political principles, 
is calculated to do infinite service, among 
those more especially, who are incapable 
of thinking for themselves, and who by ha- 
bit, acquire the sentiments that perpetually 
meet their eyes and amuse their vacant 
hours. And in the country, particularly, 
how many thousands receive what they read 
in a periodical publication as oracular de- 
cisions ; and to whom a knowledge of so- 
cial or moral duty could not otherwise be 
communicated, as they too often neglect 
the established means of instruction, or 
despise its assistance. 

Hence the importance of journals that 
preserve these grand objects in view — to 
illuminate and to reform. And, from the 
same consideration may be seen the infamy 
and guilt of those, who poison the public 
mind — weaken the faith of revelation — 


Newspapers* 97 


unhinge the ties of moral order, and dis- 
seminate opinions subversive of the well- 
being of civilized society. Could the 
authors indeed, of such publications, 
whether issuing regularly or occasionally 
from the press, sit down and consider with 
a calm attention, what possible ill effects 
j may result from their want of integrity or 
I duty as men and citizens, tliey would shud- 
i der at the reflection, and expiate their 
I guilt by amendment. 

' The solitary vices of men may affect a 
few ; but who can estimate the mischief 
of public ill example, or atone for the wide- 
spread effects of pernicious principles. 

But on the tendency of newspapers, 
perhaps enough has been said. Their 
general direction it is to be hoped is good ; 
and that much more service is done by 
the aggregate mass, than evil is occasion- 
ed by particular parts, must be readily 


I 


allowed. 

All — even the worst — -in other points 
of view, tend to convey instruction, and 
to generalize knowledge. By giving in- 
telligence from every quarter of the globe, 
they excite inquiries ; by displaying die 
good and bad qualities of other nations, 


98 Newspaper.s, 

they remove ill-founded prejudices, or con- 
firm deserved aversion. They communi- 
cate beneficial discoveries, which would 
otherwise be lost ; they record transac- 
tions which engage admiration, or rivet 
disgust ; they warm by example, and in- 
struct by contrast. They diftuse taste ; 
they correct prevailing absurdities. They 
awe the proudest into the conviction of 
keeping some terms, with morality and 
public opinion. They deter the flagitious 
from crime, lest they should be held up to 
the public detestation ; and, in fine they 
watch over individual and public liberty, 
which can never be violated with impuni- 
ty, while the press remains pure and free. 

Thus to the philosophic eye, the diur- 
nal labours of characters, undignified by 
literature, appear capable of producing 
more extensively beneficial consequences 
than the abilities of a Plato, a So- 
crates, or a Johnson. May suchfeel 
the value of the rank they hold in society ; 
and never more disgrace it, bypropagat-* 
ing vice or wilful error, by lending their 
sanction to the tvorthless, or by w eakening 
the bands that preserve mankind in har- 
mony and happiness ! 


99 


I XXVII. JUVENILE AMUSEMENTS. 

I “ A sound mind in a sound body,” is a 
short but just definition of the grand ob- 
jects, which education should embrace. 
To accomplish this, is to lay the founda- 
tion of all private happiness and public uti- 
lity. The improvement of the mind is 
of little consecpjence, if the strength and 
health of the body be neglected : and on 
the other hand, mere animal powers, with- 
out mental cultivation, is the attribute of 
a beast rather than a man. 

How much human misery, however, 
has arisen from a want of due attention to 
i combine early learning and exercise, in 
j such proportions, as might be likely to 
promote the most important interests of 
mankind ! How many constitutions have 
been ruined by this fatal neglect ! Not- 
withstanding all our boasted improve- 
ments in knowledge and progress in wis- 
dom, the business of education is still too 
generally conducted on wrong principles. 
Because mind is universally allowed to be 
superior to body, little or no attention is 
paid at schools to the welfare of the latter, 


100 


Juvenih Amusements. 


unless when immediately diseased. Res- 
traints and inflictions are practised at a pe- 
riod much too early : the natural activity 
of children is checked, even when their 
pursuits are the most innocent ; and the 
salutary cheerfulness of childish play is 
deemed inconsistent with the fastidious 
correctness of modern manners. 

It will probably be urged, however, 
that the young aie sufficiently prone to 
pursue amusement, even at the expence 
of the most valuable acquisitions. It may 
be so in general ; but unless where there 
is a disposition to total indolence — an | 
aversion to all mental and corporeal exer- 
tion, the parent or the tutor may easily re- 
gulate the predominant propensity, and 
turn it to advantage. 7"he excess of vo- 
latility in youth is less to be blamed, than 
that injudicious treatment, which would 
impose a dull formality on all its motions. 

In order, however, to avoid misconstruc- 
tion, all i contend for is this : that w hile 
sound learning is taught with unw-earied as- 
siduity, proper intervals should not only 
be allowed for play ; but its nature should 
also be regulated, according to the season 
of the year, and the age and constitution 
of the pupil. 


Juvenile Amusements. 101 

To recommend, therefore, one diver- 
sion in preference to another would be ab- 
surd ; because no general rule can apply to 
all cases. All may be salutary in their 
turns ; and the most innocent might be- 
come dangerous, when injudiciously pur- 
sued, or improperly commenced. The 
selection ought always to depend on the 
judgment of the tutor, and the peculiar 
bias of the scholar. 

I cannot, however, forbear throwing my 
sentiments on this subject into the form 
of an incident, to strengthen what I have 
already advanced, and to shew how a va- 
cant hour may be eligibly employed.— 
Happy shall I be to find that I am in the 
smallest degree instrumental in drawing 
the attention of the instructors of youth to 
a much neglected branch of their duty. 

A careful master, on being informed 
that an unfortunate accident had befallen 
a young gentleman, at one of our public 
schools, from an arrow shot into his eye at 
play, summoned his pupils together, and 
after expatiating on the sad misfortune, ad- 
dressed them in the following terms : 

“ Young gentlemen, the love of play is 
natural to you — it is suited to your years, 


102 Juvenile Amusements^ 

and salutary to your health ; far be it from 
me, then, to abridge you of pastimes pro- 
perly selected, and seasonably used. It 
is my wish to regulate your pleasures, not 
to restrain them. Whatever is likely to 
be attended with danger, ceases to be an 
amusement. Did I not caution you on 
this head, you might, in case of misfor- 
tune, have reason to reflect on me. Think 
on the melancholy accident I have men- 
tioned, and be warned : 

Felix gucm faciunt aliena fiericula cautum. 

All kinds of play, likewise, where too 
violent exertion is required, where you | 
risque the extremes of heat and cold, ' 
should be avoided, as inimical to health. ! 
How often is misery entailed on age, by a 
single act of imprudence of youth ! Vio- 
lent exercise cannot be called pastime. — 
Whei tever we labour, it should be to for- 
ward some useful end ; to do good to our- 
selves, or to benefit others. 

“ When danger and excess are guard- 
ed against the field is open to you ; and 
the ingenuity of youth, in so many pre- 
ceding ages, has invented numerous sports, i 
to exercise v/ithout fatigue, and to amuse 


Juvenile Amusements, 


103 


without endangering. Chuse which you 
will, under the above restrictions — vary 
them as often as you please — for variety 
is a source of pleasure — from me you shall 
have no obstruction. To see you happy 
shall be my delight — but to see you safe, 
is my duty. 

“ There are, however, occasionally, 
many hours, after you have obtained a pass- 
port ^o play, by punctually pcrfor ning 
your tasks, in which several kinds of re- 
laxation will be agreeable to an ingenious 
youth, which cannot be collectively pur- 
sued. That pastime in which numbers 
are concerned, and which may be deno- 
minated corporeal, should, at intervals, 
give way to intellectual pleasures; and 
these are only to be found in solitary study 
or in select society. 

“ Bad weather will give a charm to read- 
itig books of entertainment and instruc- 
tion. This taste, indeed, ought to be early 
cultivated ; as it forms the principal en- 
joyment of the lonely hour through life, 
and is the only solace of decrepit age. 

“ A turn for drawing, painting, or mu- 
sic, is likewise deserving encouragement 
in youth. It often keeps them from idle 

VOL. I. E 


104 Juvenile Amusement. 

or vicious pursuits, and fills up the blanks 
of life with elegant entertainment. Let me, 
therefore, recommend some attention to 
those studies, not as tasks prescribed, but 
as pleasing amusements. 

“ In very early youth, active pleasures, 
and those which are wholly corporeal, are 
not to be blamed: they strengthen the 
constitution, and fit it for the discharge of 
manly employments. Bat when the judg- 
ment makes some advances to maturity, 
the mind and the body should divide the 
leisure hour ; and pleasure and improve- 
ment go hand in hand.’* 

The pupils listened to their master with 
becoming attention ; and ever after, were 
extremely orderly in their pastimes. They 
shun ed dange — they avoided excess; 
and not a few of them, from th s benevo- 
lent and judicious recommendation, pre- 
ferred mental improvement to desultory 
play, even when the choice was free. 

To conclude : from an union of gym- 
nastics, or in other words, of health of 
body with the improvement of the mind, 
the hapj-iiest consequences 'would result, 
both to individuals and nations. Take 
the subsequent parallel between 


105 


I The Slave of Opinion. 

I ties of body and mind, and the manner in 
which they reciprocally act on each other, 

I horn the philanthropic and sensible Salz- 

! inann, whose work on the recreations of 
youth deserves to be read, by every pa-* 
rent and every instructor. 

1 

I CORPOREAL. INTELLECTUAL. 

I Health of body - - Serenity of mind 

Hardiness - - Manliness of sentiment. 

! Strength and address Presence of mind and 

courage. 

! Activity of body - Activity of mind. 

I Excellence of form Mental beauty. 

Acutness of the senses Strength of understand- 

; ing. 

I 

I ^ ^ 


! XXVIII, THE SLAVE OF OPINION. 

i 

I 

Happiness certainly is not too prodigal- 
ly distributed among men, yet how much 
more general are its gifts than we are 
taught to believe, or are willing to enjoy. 
Would w^e be guided by the genuine, un- 
biassed dictates of the heart, and treat the 
opinion of others with indifference, it would 
be much less difficult to obtain felicity ; 
nor would its possession be so precarious. 


106 The Slave of Opinion, 

Carried away, however, by a conformity 
to mistaken maxims ot human action, and 
regardless of the calls of reason and duty, 
we frequently forfeit our internal peace ; 
and seem more solicitous to be miserable, 
that others may not think us so, than to 
be happy, and to feel our own enjoyments. 

Flexosus, after receiving a finished edu- 
cation, came into the possession of a very 
moderate estate, at the age of twenty -four. 
He had early been taught to sacrifice all 
to appearances, and to act in conformity 
to the silly rules, which fashion imposes 
on her votaries. His good sense told him 
he might have reputably and pleasan ly in- 
creased his scanty income, by following a 
profession or a trade. But he was born a 
gentleman, and what would the world 
think of his demeaning himself, by pur- 
suing the road to gain by a particular vo- 
cation ? He therefore gave up an idea so 
derogatory to his dignity ; and to shew 
that he was a gentleman, launched out into 
expe ces beyond his finances — kept hor- 
ses and dogs — became a keen sportsman, 
and a hard drinker ; though he kid no re- 
lish for the turbulent sports of the field, 
and was naturally averse to every species 


The Slave of Opinion, 107 

of intemperance. But he conceived he 
must act like other young men of his age, 
or what would the world think ? 

He fell violently in love with a young 
lady of the most amiable disposition, and 
the most accomplished manners ; but des- 
titute of that grand recommendation — a 
fortune. Passion for a long time blinded 
him to this deficiency. Affection became 
mutual and sincere. The match at last 
was talked of among his friends ; and the 
opinion, of the world was against its pro- 
priety — for what is tlie most exalted merit 
without a fortune, in its estimation ! He 
listened to its sage and selfish principles — 
he felt, indeed, a fortune would be very 
; useful — but at the same time he was con- 
i scious, that his passion was too deeply 
; rooted, to be overcome without a struggle. 

I, Had he consulted his own feelings in this 
I affair, they would have told him, that he 
! could have been happier n ith Aspasia in 
I a cot, than with any other w^oman in a pa- 
! lace. But he was born the slave of opinion 
•I — and, hard as the conflict was, he deter- 
i mined to bid her adieu, rather than oppose 
! the sentiments of others, w^ho had no in- 
I terest in his choice. 

: £ 2 


108 The Slave of Opiniorh 

Finding tliat he could not be happy m 
his own way, he formed the resolution ne- 
ver to marry. Here again his determina- 
tion was combated. A young gentleman of 
his figure and education was entitled to a 
wealthy bride. He was given to under- 
stand, that his affairs would be ruined, and 
his reputation sink, if he did not provide 
himself with a hel -mate, to manage his 
domestic concerns. As he had already 
sacrificed so much to opinion, he listened 
again to the world’s suggestions ! An old 
virgin, without a virtue to adorn her mind 
or a charm to beautify her face, was sing- 
led out for him by his officious friends ; 
because she had the sterling merit of a 
large independent fortune. It was round- 
ly insinuat'/d to him, that now was his 
time to become rich and respectable. — 
Happiness is seldom thought of in matri- 
monial conne ions : it is commonly 
deemed a chimera ! He was induced to 
visit this anti(juated maiden — he paid his 
addresses with coolness — they were re- 
turned with affected warmth. He would 
have rather courted than married ; but it 
was Vvhis}3erv.d, if he did not strike while 
tlie iron was hot, he might lose his chance ; 


109 


The Slave of OpmioT%, 

and the world would call him a fool. — 
That was too much to bear. He mafried 
— obtained a fortune, and the character 
of being a prudent man — but he forfeited 
his happiness for ever ! 

His lady, regarding him as younger than 
herself, instead of consi dering that this 
naturally imposed on her the necessity of 
greater condescension, thought it gave her 
a title to urge advice, and to exercise con- 
troul; and she gloried in its use. If he 
was cheerful, she was jealous and reserv- 
ed ; if distressed, she would hum a tune, 
to shew her contempt. She had just sense 
enough to discover, that she had no pre- 
tensions to engage his affections, and she 
was wicked enough not to study to de- 
I serve them. 

i Flexosus became negligent of himself, 
and indifferent about his fate ; yet, though 
I home grew every day more intolerable to 
him, what could he do ? The opinion of 
the world, which he had paid so dearly for 
obtaii»ing, he was unwilling to lose. He 
thought, indeed, of a separation, which in 
fact had long taten place in heart between 
both ; but how was it to be earned into 
efiect ? He was weak enough to wish to 


110 The Slave of Opinion. 

please every body; and he knew, that 
when any two people quarrel, the most 
worthless is generally favoured by the 
crowd, l^his deterred him, for he was 
the dupe of opinion still; but had not 
death very opportunely carried off the 
cause of his misery, it was probable he 
might for once have had resolution to de- 
termine for himself. 

Here again we find Flexosus at liberty. 
He had gained experience — dear-bought 
experience. What effect had it on his 
conduct ! The lady for whom his heart 
first knew the tenderness of love, and 
whom he had inspired with a mutual pas- 
sion, was still unmarried. She knew not 
how to practise the casuistry^ that pro- 
mises duty without affection. Her prin- 
ciples had kept her single. 

In decent time, he began to think of re- 
newing his acquaintance with this amia- 
ble woman. He hoped she might still be 
brought to pardon his weak compliance 
with the advice, which occasioned his de- 
reliction of her. But how was he to avo'^v 
his sentiments ? He did not, indeed, want 
a fortune so much as foritierly ; but the 
maxim is — one fortune ought to gain 


The Slave of Opinion, 111 

another. This mercenary logic was con- 
stantly dinned in his ears. To prove a 
fool at forty, would be inexcusable — in 
early youth, some allowance is to be made 
for the force of passion. Alas ! he found 
that the world would not allow him this 
plea, at the season when its current max- 
ims did not f(jrbid ; and how was he to 
obtain its sanction, when } ears had ren- 
dered him mature ? The thought distract- 
ed him : he discover d the impossibility 
of being happy in reality, and oi being 
thought so too : and he dash.d the cup 
of felicity from his lips, at ihe moment he 
might have tasted of i^s sweets. When 
we lose the hope of b(^ing happ\ , we fre- 
qiiently begin to deserve to be nnserable. 

^Flexosus now gave himself up to the de- 
structive vice oi intoxication. The ra- 
vages of an hereditary gout were accele- 
rated by intemperance ; and he soon fell 
a martyr to disease. 

Such is the short history of a man, 
whom nature formed for happiness, had 
he not renounced her smiles. A; d iew 
are there, who hav^e ga.ined any e pcrience 
in life, but will find some parallel between 
Fiexosus and themselves. How many 


112 Biography. 

thousands, in all ages, have sacrificed the 
tranquil joys of life to empty sound ; and 
have suffered themselves to be diverted 
from bliss, when it courted their accept^ 
ance. 

The opinion of the world, is, indeed, 
worth securing, when it can be done with 
a due regard to justice and ourselves ; but 
when it runs counter to the unalterable 
bias of the mind, and substitutes chimeras 
instead of rational enjoyments, a wise man 
will learn to despise it, and dare to be hap- 
py in its spite. 


XXIX. BIOGRAPHY. 

To contemplate the lives of eminent 
persons, impartially delineated by the hand 
of a master, is not only a pleasing but a 
profitable study. By this we become ac- 
quainted with the illustrious names of an- 
tiquity, and may fancy ourselves admitted 
into tlieir venerrible society. We may 
thus accompany a Solon and a Lycurgiis, 
in their legislative labours ; hear a Plato 
and a Socrates philosophize, and a Homer 


113 


Biography, 

and a Virgil sing. O % descending to 
more modern times, und exulting in those 
who have been th^: honour of our own 
country, and of human nature, we may 
associate with a Bacon and a Locke, a 
Newton, a Milton, and a Pope. 

From the amiable or elevated character, 
as it falls under our review, we may catch 
the love of virtue, (jr the glow of emula- 
tion ; from tne sanguinary tyrant and the 
worthless minion, we may learn to set a 
, due value on those qualities whi h conci- 
1 liate esteem, and to detest the pests of so- 
' ciety, and the enemies of mankind, how- 
ever exalted their rank. 

Biography is farther valuable ; because 
it cannot fail to have some effect on the 
most unprincipled. The thought of being 
I handed down to posterity in colours of in- 
I! famy, must frequently check the vicious 
I, machination, and stay the atrocious deed. 

’! A love of fame is implanted in our nature 
for the wisest and noblest ends. Few pos- 
ij sess that magnanimity which can render 
i; them indifferent to applause, or are so 
(j much sunk in crimes, as to treat reputa- 
i| tion with derision and contempt. 

I When the good are loaded with oblo^ 

j 


i 


114 Biography, 

qiij', or have their views and conduct mis- 
interpreted, they can look forward to the 
impartial tribunal of time, and feel that 
they may safely abide its award. But 
the ignominy that attends the abandoned 
through life, is preserved in the historic 
page ; and callous must that heart be to 
generous emotions, which will not revolt 
at the idea of merited and eternal infamy. 

The praise paid to desert is a great spur 
to laudable action. In recording the lives 
of those who have benefitted or enlighten- 
ed mankind, commendation should be 
interwoven in the te.\ture, with no nig- 
gardly hand. The flowers we strew on 
the grave of merit, will prove the most 
grateful incense to living worth. How oft- 
en has the sight of a monument in West- 
minster Abbey inspired the martial enthu- 
siasm, the zeal of patriotism, or the emu- 
lation of genius ! There are generous pas- 
sions in the soul of man that only want a 
breath to wake them into action. Even 
a well- written amiable life has prompted 
numbers to live well*. 

Need I, therefore, recommend an atten- 

* See the preface to the British Nepos, 
in which this essay is expanded and applied. 


115 


A Fragment. 

tion to biography ! From Plutarch’s 
Lives, to the pocket Biogi'aphical Dic- 
tionary, I think all writings of this kind 
are highly valuable, as setting examples 
to imitate, or erecting beacons to warn. 


XXX. THE MARVELLOUS. 

; A FRAGMENT. 

Young persons in general are highly 
delighted with romantic descriptions and 
' wonderful adventures. When these set 
probability at defiance, and therefore can- 
I not mislead, they are certainly harmless ; 
j and may be entertaining. I have select- 
1 ed a specimen, from an original work of 
I this kind, intended to ridicule a romantic 
I taste, and a credulous disposition. 

After plying in this manner two days 
and as many nights without any suste- 
nance, I found myself exhausted with las- 
situde and hunger; and would gladly 
have res gned a life, which in my appre- 
hension, seemed devoted only to encoun- 
ter fresh scenes of misery. Sleep, howc- 
ver at last overpowered me ; and what oc- 
k3 


i 1 6 Tht Marvellous, 

curred during its fascinating captivity, i 
am unable to relate ; but after an unknown 
interval had elapsed, I once more opened 
my eyes, and to my unspeakable satisfac- 
tion perceived that my boat was stranded 
on a pleasant shore. 'J he sun shone in 
his meridian glory, the birds repeated their 
mellifluous strains, from the branches of 
the most beautiful trees I had ever beheld ; 
when I began to look about me for some- 
thing to eat, as well to recruit my exhaust- 
ed strength, as to allay the cravings of 
hunger. 

“ As my travels are unquestionably a 
series of wonders, the reader will not be 
surprised to hear, that I met with a plumb- 
pudding tree within twenty. paces of the 
shore ; and had I been able to procure a 
buttock of beef, I might have feasted in a 
very substantial and satisfactory style. 
The beautiful tree, which produces the 
plumb-pudding fruit, rises only to the 
height of twenty feet ; the leaves are shap- 
ed like those ol a cabbage, but are a great 
deal larger ; the branches which spread in 
all directions from the stem, bend in the 
middle, and almost touch the groand with 
their extremities; and on almost every 


A Fragment. 117 

twig hangs a plumb pudding, which 
seems to be formed by the concoction of 
various juices, exuding from every part 
of the tree. Strange as it may appear, 
this food when analyzed, exactly resem- 
bled that which English hospitality serves 
up at sabbatical dinners, except that it 
I was far more delicious and nutritiv* . 

“ With this new acquisition, I w^as 
delighted above measure; and could 1 
have transported myself into England 
I with a good stock of these plants, and 
f been successful in their cultivation, I 
[ should have thought myself the happiest 
of men, and in the fairest way of making 
a fortune ; since I have always observed, 
that he who gratifies theappeiit , wiii ver 
be more honoured . nd encouraged, than 
j he who rectifies the will, and improves the 
! mind. 

, “ Having replenished the stomach, I 

|! set out on adventures, det rmined, if pos- 

I siblc, to discover some human creatures 
with whom ! might associate, however 
barbarous their manners, and repelling 
their features. As I proceeded from the 
shore, serpents began to hiss, and mon* 
j kies to chatter round me ; but neither 


118 


The Marvellous* 


intimidated by past dangers, nor inordi- 
nately apprehensive of future ones, I bo d- 
ly pushed on, in expectation of seeing the 
abodes of men ; which from the number 
of paths to be traced, I concluded were at 
no great distance. 

“ At last, the wished for prospect, as I 
imagined, opened to my sight. I beheld 
a vast number of conical structures, co- 
vering the whole extent of a spacious 
plain ; and to them I advanced wi^h ala- 
crity, hoping to be able, by my address, 
to secure a favourable reception, rr at 
least to escape punishment for mv intru- 
sion. When I had reached the first build- 
in.i>-, I was sur}:}rij^( d to find, that its en- 
trai ce was no larger than would admit a 
cat. I immediately concluded I was got 
among the l .illiputians ; and this lessen- 
ing : y fear, though it did not much in- 
crei'.se my pleasure, I knocked at the door 
without hesitation. A confused murmur 
issued from within; but nothing like the 
human voice saluted my ears. I knock- 
ed again ; the murmur increased ; and 
almost in an instant, an army of that spe- 
cies of ants called termites^ poured out 
wdth the most malignant aspects, and 


A Fragment. 119 

seemed advancing to attack me. I start- 
ed back with consternation, and fled to the 
next building : — its inhabitants were of 
the same species, and were likewise alarm- 
ed. Legions of these insects, as large as 
rabbits, advanced to the spot where I stood ; 
the whole ground was darkened with 
their numbers ; and had I not made the 
I utmost speed to escape, by plunging into 
an adjoining river, and swimming across, 
I am certain I should have been devour- 
I ed, by those determined and dangerous 
|| animals. 

1 “ Frustrated in my expectation of find- 
ing the society of men, and concluding 
that none could exist in such a vicinity, I 
travelled forward for some days, allowing 
1 only a proper time for rest and food, with- 

I out meeting with any signs of humanity 
— the tracks I had formerly observed, 
|i appearing now to be solely those of the 
jl termites. On the sixth day of my pere- 
!j grination, I ascended a lofty hill, shaded 
I with the most beautiful evergreens, whose 
|1 branches were loaded with a profusion of 
ij fruits, delicious as the fabled ambrosia. 
l| At small intervals ran rivulets, rich as nec- 
!i tar, wliich, uniting their streams at the 
E 4 


120 


The Marvellous, 


bottom of the hill, formed a spacious lake 
that shone with the lustre of diamonds, 
reflected in the solar ray. My eyes were 
dazzled by the brilliancy of the prospect ; 
my senses were ravished ; and I vainly 
said to myself, this can be no other than 
the terrestrial paradise. 

“ I continued to solace myself with the 
divine repasts this spot supplied, till I was 
quite satiated with enjoyment. My re- 
collection began to be lost. I sat down 
with silent acquiescence in my solitary 
fate ; or rather, I forgot that I was a mor- 
tal, and that all pleasure was very imper- 
fect, without the charms of friendship and 
society. 

“ i his agreeable delirium gradually in- 
creased, owing I suppose to the nature of 
my food, till at last 1 sunk into a swoon, 
and had neither perception of pleasure nor 
pain. How long I v ontinued in this state 
of apathy is unknown : but after an inde- 
finite space, I felt reason rushing to the 
citadel she had deserted. I lifted up my 
eyes, and beheld myself seated on a bar- 
ren rock, amid a thirsty plain. The agree- 
able illusion i had formerly enjoyed was 
totally dissipated ; instead of nectar and 


.4 Fragment. 121 

ambrosia, I could not discover even a 
wild berry to eat, or water to drink. Fee- 
ble and dejected, I set out again in hopes 
of meeting with some good to atone for 
my late disappointment. I crossed ri- 
vers, and traversed vallies. Wild beasts 
howled around me ; and nature seemed to 
j put on her most frightful aspect, in order 
I to deter me from advancing. 

“ The scene again changed. The earth 
i became clothed with fertility ; and I en- 
!| tered a country cultivated with the utmost 
;i care and success. Now I made myself 
I certain of human society. At a distance, 

; 1 discovered something like a city ; but so 
I, enormous were the buildings, that they 
|i appeared like castles rather than private 
fi| habitations. 

j “At this sight, I summoned up all 
j my resolution ; practised new modes of 
it address, and looks of submission, to con- 
I ciliate the affection of the beings I was 
j about to visit. As I approached the city, 
1 found it walled and fortified with un- 
c onnnon strength. gate appeared at 

one end, and to it I advanced, and knock- 
ed for admission. A voice, terrible as 
I the roaring of a lion, answered, and the 


122 


The Marvellous, 


doors flying open in an instant, I beheld 
two porters, of the most gigantic stature, 
each having two heads. I now repented 
of my temerity ; but repentance was too 
late. One of the porters took me up be- 
tween his finger and his thumb ; and ex- 
amining my conformation, seemed to pre- 
sent me to his companion with a grin of 
self-congratulation. The other appeared 
to point out my defect in having only one 
head ; and holding me out on the palm of 
his hand, spoke in a language I did not 
understand, though I conjectured he was 
inquiring whence I came, and how I hap- 
pened to be so diminutive and deformed. 
^ ^ ^ 


XXXI. ENIGMA II. 

Now I will entertain you with an enig- 
ma. But mind — whoever solves it first, , | 
shall have the privilege of asking me for ■ 
another, on some future opportunity. I ; 
expect you will all be attentive, tliat you J 
may deserve this indulgence. ^ 


123 


iljiigma. 


Each lovely virtue in its turn, 
Embronzed vice has dar’d to spurn ; 
Tlie dearest ties that bind the heart, — . 
Affection’s glow and friendship’s part, 
And honour’s law, and justice rule, 
Have prov’d the butts of ridicule. 


But me no tongue dar’d e’er defame, 

No slander stain my spotless name ; 

For those who most my claims neglect, 

In others treat me with respect. 

Where love the virtues to reside, 

There I exist in conscious pride ; 

AVith generous passions closely bound, 

A lustre I diffuse around ; 

And when the heart obeys my call. 
Deserv’d esteem it gains from all. 

By me the poor may case the debts 
AVhich liberal charity begets ; 

By me beneficence repay, 

^ And prove a right to favour’s ray. 

To Heav’n,from all I’m justly due, 

But pride the claim will scarce allow ; 

And pride to man full oft denies 
My incense and my sacrifice : 

Yet favours granted-— mercy shewn. 

From God or man, I love to own. 

Harry hemmed and hawed — he felt the 
force of the word, but could not express 
it, li IS goodness? said /F5//. — No; cx- 


124 


Botany. 

claimed his brother Jack. Is it thankful- 
ness^ said George. You have nearly 
guessed it — can you find a word synoni- 
mous, or bearing the same meaning ? No ; 
said all — but in an instant Gratitude 
occurred, and it solved the riddle. 


XXXII. BOTANY. 

Walking along the banks of a river, 
where the meandering stream in some 
places had a motion scarcely perceptible, 
a bed of white water lilies, the nymphaa 
alba^ reared their beautiful heads to meet 
the sun. My little companion was struck 
with this novel sight. “ What fine flower 
is this ? said he. — I acquainted him with 
its name, and explained its habitudes, as 
well as I could reduce them to his under- 
standing. 

A little farther, we observed that most 
elegant aquatic, the water gladiole, the ; 
butomus umbellatus of Linnaeus. He was 
quite in raptures with its beautiful appear- 
ance ; and nothing would satisfy him but 
to have one of its stalks. “ This is still 
prettier than the water lily,” said he. — It 
is, my dear, a very handsome plant ; but 


125 


Botany. 

how many beautiful plants constantly meet 
your eye, and solicit your attention ; and 
yet, because they are common, you take 
no notice of them. “ Well,” observed 
he, “I shall be pleased to examine them, 
and to know all their names. Are they 
of any use — Yes, their uses in medicine, 
food, the arts and manufactures, are nu- 
merous and "important ; and you cannot 
pursue a more delightful study than to be- 
come acquainted with them. This science 
is termed Botany. It may, as an ele- 
gant author observes, be styled the art of 
making a walk agreeable : for every 
step presents a new page, every field a 
new chapter, and every change of soil a 
new book. The neglected down, the cul- 
tivated plain, the flowery meadow, the 
tinkling rill, the rapid stream, the shady 
wood, the craggy shore, and even tl le im- 
passable morass, each affords elegant or 
curious specimens of plants, which ^may 
either amuse or instruct. 

In a pursuit so innocent, and at the 
same time so useful, I shall be happy to 
direct you. But Botany is not the ac- 
quisition of a day ; nor can a proper 
knowledge of it be acquired in the school, 
or the closet. It has this advantage over 


126 


Botany. 

most studies, that in prosecuting your 
researches, you unite health with pleasure ; 
and when tired with more important se- 
dentary engagements, you may launch 
out into the field or the garden, and there 
revel on all the luxuries of vegetable 
nature. 

I can only explain to you the general 
outlines of this science, one of the most 
fashionable, and I will venture to say one 
of the most rational amusements of the 
present times. The great father of Botany 
was Linnseus, a very learned and perse- 
vering Swede, who flourished about the 
middle of the last century. This illustri- 4 
ous student of nature reduced the immense^ 
mass of vegetation to scientific rules ; andV: 
rendered that acquisition easy and pleasant,, 
lyhich, before his time, was the avocation 
of a long life, assiduously employed. To 
efiect this desirable end, he distributed 
all vegetables into twenty-four classes — ' 
these classes he divided into orders — the 
orders he subdivided into genera, and the 
genera into species and varieties. 

I shall now give you the outlines of his 
arrangement, which you ought to commit 
to memory, before you ad^'ance a step 
farther. 


Outlines of LmiKCus'^s system oj Vegetables, 


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TABLE OF THE ORDERS. 


I. Monandria. 

1 Monogynia 

2 Digynia 

II. Diandtia. 

1 Monognia 

2 Digynia 

3 Trigynia 

III. Triandriat- 

1 Monognia 

2 Digynia 

3 Trigynia 

IV. Tetrandria. 

1 Monogynia 

2 Digynia 

3 Tetragynia 

V. Pentandria. 

1 Monogynia 

2 Digynia 

3 Trigynia 

4 Tetragynia 

5 Pentagynia 

6 Polygynia 

VI. Hexandria. 

1 Monogynia 

2 Digynia 


3 Trigynia 

4 Tetragynia 

5 Polygynia 

VII. Hefitandria. 

1 Monogynia 

2 Digynia 

3 Tetragynia 

4 Heptagynia 

VIII. Octandria. 

1 Monogynia 

2 Digynia 

3 Trigynia 

4 Tetragynia 

IX. Enneandria. 

1 Monogynia 

2 Trigynia 

3 Hexagynia 

X. Decandria. 

1 Monogynia 

2 Digynia 

3 Trigynia 

4 Pentagynia 

5 Decagynia 

XI. Dodecandria 
1 Monogynia 


|JP» W fcO 


129 


Table of the Orders. 


^ Digynia 

3 Trigynia 

4 Pentagynia 

5 Dodecagynia 

XII. Icosandria. 

1 Monogynia 

2 Digynia 

3 Trigynia 

4 Pentagynia 

5 Polygynia 

XIII. Polyandria. 

1 Monogynia 

2 Digynia 

3 Trigynia 

4 Tetragynia 

5 Pentagynia 

6 Hexagynia 

7 Polygynia 

XIV. Didynamia, 

1 Gymnospermia 

2 Angiospermia 

XV. Tetr adynamia. 

1 Silliculosa 

2 Silliquosa 

XVI. Monadelfihia. 
1 Triandria 

Pentandria 

Octandria 

Enneandria 


5 Decandria 

6 Endecandria 

7 Dodecandria 

8 Polyandria 

XVII. Diadelfihia. 

1 Pentandria 

2 Hexandria 

3 Octandria 

4 Decandria 

XVIII. Polyadelphia, 

1 Pentandria 

2 Dodecandria 

3 Icosandria 

4 Polyandria 

XIX. Syng'enesia. 

1 Polygamia aequalis 

2 Polygamia superflua 

3 Polygamia frustra- 

nea 

4 Polygamia necessa- 

ria 

5 Polygamia segregata 

6 Monogamia 

XX. Gynandria, 

1 Diandria 

2 Triandria 

3 Tetrandria 

4 Pentandria 

5 Hexandria 

6 Octandria 


130 


Botany. 


7 Decandria 

8 Dodecandria 

9 Polyandria 

XXL MoTKecia. 

1 Monandria 

2 Diandria 

3 Triandria 

4 Tetrandria 

5 Pentandria 

6 Hexandria 

7 Heptandria 
S Polyandria 

9 Monadelphia 

10 Syngenesia 

11 Gynandria 

XXII. Dixcia. 

1 Monandria 

2 Diandria 

3 Triandria 

4 Tetrandria 


5 Pentandria 

6 Hexandria 

7 Octandria 

8 Enneandria 

9 Decandria 

10 Dodecandria 

1 1 Polyandria 

12 Monadelphia 

13 Syngenesia 

14 Gynandria 

XXIII. Polygamia. 

1 Monoecia 

2 Dioecia 

3 Trice cia 

XXIV. Cryfitogamia. 

1 Filices 

2 Musci 

3 Algae 

4 Fungi 


Palmae 


These terms, at first, may seem un- 
couth ; but you are sufficiently acquaint- 
ed with Greek, to perceive, that they are 
all derived from that elegant language ; 
and they are the most expressive that can 
possibly be invented. 

The classes are all artificial, and depend 


Botany. 131 

on the number, proportion, connexion, 
and situation of the stamina. 

The first thirteen classes are formed 
from the number of the stamina. 

The FOURTEENTH and fifteenth 
are founded on the proportion of the 
stamina. 

The next FIVE classes are established 
/ on the connexion of the stamina. 

From the TWENTIETH to the twenty- 
third inclusive, the classes are formed 
from the situation of the stamina. 

The twenty-fourth, or cryptoga- 
mia class, consists of such plants as have 
the parts of fructification either invisible, 
or difficult to be accurately observed, 
including ferns, mosses, mushrooms, 
lichens, &c. 

The PALM^ are not strictly reducible 
to either class, ^ 

The ORDERS are much less simple 
, than the classes. These, however, are in 
I general deduced from the number or dif- 
I ferences of the pistillum, or female part of 
I fructification. 

I The GENERA agree, in the general cha- 
I racters of fructification. 

I The SPECIES differ in proportion and 

i E 6 

!i 


132 


Botany. 

figure^ ^c. and varieties in colour^ 
size^ or some accidental circumstance. 

It should be observed, that some of the 
successors and disciples of Linnceus have 
distributed the classes Gynandria, Monoe- 
cia, Dioecia, and Polygamia among the 
rest, with a view of simplifying the study. 
Were this arrangement universally adopt- 
ed, it might be advantageous ; but in my 
opinion, some confusion is introduced, by 
the lovers of the science taking different 
sides in the question. 

Now, what do you think of Botany ? 
“ I admire it very much, and wish to un- 
derstand it.” — I am glad of it; and as 
oral instruction would be too tedious, I 
shall call in the aid of books, that you 
may study at your leisure, and that you 
may only have occasion to apply to me, 
when you are at a loss to comprehend 
terms, or distinguish plants which you 
liave collected. 


133 


XXXIII. RECOLLECTIONS. 

The heart of elegance and sensibility is 
continually taking a retrospect on pleasures 
which are no more. The more cultivat- 
ed the taste, the more humanized the mind, 
the more painful will be the reflection on 
joys which are for ever sunk in night ; and 
whose image rises only to agitate and tor- 
ment. 

It is wTong perhaps to encourage this 
mental tenderness, this vivid sense of de- 
lights, w’hich w^e know are not to be re- 
called ; yet in the soothing recollections of 
past felicity, there is a charm to the gene- 
rous and enlightened soul, which it would 
not relinquish for the highest gratifications 
of vulgar minds. The verses which sug- 
gested these preliminary reflections, paint 
the feelings of an elegant mind with such 
fidelity and impressiveness, that I cannot 
refrain from giving them a place in this 
miscellany. They boast something more 
than poetic ornament : the sentiments 
must be felt, and cannot fail to refine. 


134 


Refiections* 

« I canpot but remember such things were, 
And were more precious to me.** 

Shakesfear. 


Scenes of my youth ! ye once were dear, 
Though sadly I your charms survey ; 

I once was wont to linger here, 

From early dawn to closing day. 

Scenes of my youth I pale sorrow flings 
A shade o’er all your beauties now, 
And robs the moments of their wings, 
That scatter pleasure as they flow. 
While still, to heighten every care. 
Reflection tells me — Such things were. 

’Twas here a tender father strove 
To keep my happiness in view ^ 

I smil’d beneath a mother’s love, 

Who soft compassion ever knew. 

. In them the virtues all combin’d. 

On them I could with faith rely, 

To them my heart and soul were join’d, 
By strong affection’s primal tie; — 
Who smile in heav’n, exempt from care, 
Whilst I remember — Such things were. 

’Twas here, when calm and tranquil rest. 

O’erpays the peasant for his toil. 

That first in blessing I was blest 

With glowing friendship’s open smile, 
My friend, far distant doom’d to roam, 
Now braves the fury of the seas ; 


135 


Independence. 

He fled bis peaceful, happy home, 

His little fortune to increase ; 

While bleeds afresh the wound of care, 
When I remember — Such thmgs were, 

’Twas here, e'en in this bloomy grove 
I fondly gaz’d on Laura’s charms. 
Who blushing own’d a mutual love, 
And sigh’d responsive in my arms. 
Though hard the soul-conflicting strife. 
Yet fate, the cruel tyrant, bore 
Far from my sight the charm of life, 
The lovely maid whom I adore ; 

’T would ease my soul of all my care, 
Could I forget that — Such things were. 

Here first I saw the morn appear 
Of guiltless pleasure’s shining day ; 

I met the dazzling brightness here. 
Here mark’d the soft declining ray. 
Beheld the skies, whose streaming light 
Gave splendor to the parting sun. 
Now lost in sorrow’s sable night ! 

And all their mingled glories gone 1 
Till death, in pity, end my care, 

I must remember — Such things were. 


XXXIV. INDEPENDENCE, 

Endeavour to secure a moderate inde- 
pendence, because it is the preservative 


136 Independence. 

and the guardian of every virtue. I am 
far, however, from recommending solely 
an attention to the acquirement of proper- 
ty : the independence of principle is of 
more value ; and if joined with a mode- 
rate share of the former, it will produce 
generous effects, which the mere posses- 
sion of this world’s goods can never ac- 
complish. 

The man who is- actuated by tliis prin- 
ciple, will never stoop to meanness: he 
knows his own worth ; he bounds his de- 
sires by his allotments ; and will neither 
bend to the froward, nor prostitute the 
dignity of human nature, by tame or base 
compliances. 

Examine mankind — observe the im- 
mense numbers who cringe for that bread 
which their own industry and economy 
might obtain for them — who earn a pre- 
carious subsistence, scorned by their su- 
periors whom they flatter, and scarely 
envied by their inferiors whom they 
foolishly deride. If this contemplation 
does not affect you — if the misery of ser- 
vility does not rouse you to seek resour- 
ces in yourself, I know no ignominy that 
could disgrace you — I know no vice that 


Independence. 137 

could sink you lower in the scale of hu- 
man estimation. 

It is of less consequence, indeed, than 
is generally supposed, what quantum of 
fortune is our’s. To make it suffice, is 
the grand art of living : and the smaller it 
is, the more merit belongs to those who 
can husband it so as to satisfy their wants. 
No person who is loaded with debts, or 
whose extravagance impels him to exceed 
his income, whatever nominal property he 
may have, can be called independent, or 
even honest. He is the slave of his credi- 
tors, the dupe of the designing ; and his 
liberty may possibly be at the mercy of 
those on whom he looks down with an 
affected contempt. The virtue of such 
men may be undermined by the slightest 
temptations ; and their freedom depends 
on the caprice of others. But they who 
aspire to a virtuous independence of 
character, suited to their circumstances, 

I and adapted to their condition, can never 
' feel the want of that splendor which they 
I do not covet, nor be reduced to that sub- 
ijection, both of body and mind, winch is 
I equally inimical to happiness and to virtue. 


138 


XXXV. ORMAH. 

AN ORIENTAL TALE. 

Let pride be humbled in the dust ! let 
the arm of Omnipotence be universally 
acknowledged to over-rule the actions of 
men ! and let every murmur at the dis- 
pensations of Providence, be silenced at 
the reflection of their justice ! 

Ormah, the son of Coulor, the sove- 
reign of nations, in the early bloom of 
youth, was one of the most accomplished 
princes of the east : he was born to the en- 
joyment of lawful pleasure, and the exer- 
cise of regal power ; but his heart was 
soon corrupted by the consciousness of 
rank, and the servility of adulation : and 
he forgot that authority is no longer de- 
sirable, than while it is obeyed tlirough 
love ; and that no state is less enviable, 
than that which excites at once fear and 
contempt. 

No sooner was he seated on the throne 
of his paternal dominions, than he assum- 
ed an air, very different from that which 
is the result of true dignity. His com- 


OrmaJu 


159 


mands were delivered in menaces, rather 
than in words ; his edicts were thundered 
with the awe of irrevocable severity ; and 
every appearance he made in public, was 
only a prelude to violence, rapine, and 
murder. 

Restrained by no ideas of justice, and 
controuled by no advice, he sought for 
gratification only from the display of arbi- 
trary power : and dreaded nothing so 
much, as the imputation of pusillanimity 
and irresolution. The prime vizier was 
disgraced and banished, for daring to open 
his lips in defence of an innocent person, 
whom Ormah had condemned to death, 
without offering even a shadow of reason 
for the severity of such a decree ; and 
every good, and every conscientious man, 
under his government, either deplored in 
private the misery of his situation, or met 
inevitable fate, in dari. g to oppose it. 
Such was the unhappy disposition of the 
sovereign, whom Providence had placed 
at the head of millions of sul)jccts, that in 
a few years after his assuming the reins of 
government, he had not a man in his do- 
minions, whose heart was warm in his in- 
terest through love, or attached to his per- 

VOL. I. F 


140 


Ormah. 


son through gratitude. His palace was 
filled with the abandoned ministers of his^ 
vengeance, and the abject vassals of his 
power. He beheld with horror the deser- 
tion of his court ; and uttered menaces of 
revenge, and denunciations of wrath, at 
being prevented from the exercise of his 
former despotism ; and, as sovereign sway 
was, in his estimation, of no value, with- 
out displaying it in action, he issued an 
order, for every minister under his govern- 
ment to attend his person on an appointed 
day, on pain of the utmost severity that of- 
fended majesty could inflict. I he orders 
at first were heard with terror ; and irreso- 
lution seized on every dependent on the 
throne. In a short time, however, the 
consternation which they had occasioned, 
sunk into settled deliberation ; and as the ' 
transition from fear to hate is only a na- 
tural consequence, a conspiracy was form- 
ed against the Sultan Ormah, and resist- 
ance to his commands resolved on, by 
the unanimous concurrence of thousands, 
whom only the fame of his cruelty had 
ever reached. To strengthen their hands, 
^nd ensure success to their undertakings, 
they applied to a neighbouring prince to 


Ormah. 141 

espouse their cause, and to lead them on 
to deliverance or death. 

Between regal powers, jealousy and se- 
cret hate generally subsist ; an occasion to 
weaken or to ensnare one anothier will al- 
ways be eagerly sought ; and honour, 
which ought to be more sacred, and more 
binding in the higher ranks of life, will be 
often sacrificed to party revenge, personal 
pique, or selfish and interested views. 
His neighbour, Abdallah, thought this a 
valuable opportunity of aggrandizing his 
power, and extending his dominions. He 
i embraced, with ardour, the execution of 
the plan which was offered to him ; and 
I before Ormah could be apprized of the 
revolt of his subjects, he had marched an 
army of a 1 0,000 men, into the heart of 
his kingdom. The servile attendants on 
the person of Ormah dreaded to inform 
him of an event so fatal to his authority, 

1 and so dangerous to his person, and al- 
: though rumours were spread abroad over 
; all the imperial city and palace, that a con- 
jspiracy was formed, and ripe for execu- 
^ tion, they tried to amuse him with a be- 
j lief that these reports were groundless, and 
i that they were well assured he might ex- 


142 


Ormah. 


pcct to see his officers appear on the day 
appointed for their attendance, to court his 
smiles, and a* ^knowledge an implicit obe- 
dience to his will. 

Mankind are easily induced to Mieve 
what they wish. The weary traveller of 
the dcsart thinks, at the utmost extent of 
vision, he can discover the rising grove, 
or the winding stream ; he proceeds on 
his journey, and is disappointed ; yet hope 
again relieves him, and amuses him with 
surer belief. Such was the mind of Or- 
mah : he could not shut his ears against 
the voice of truth, and the warnings of ap- 
proaching danger ; but he endeavoured to 
suppress his fears by indulging the delu- 
sions of hope ; and rested his confidence, 
when he could no longer e ert his power, 
on those whom he had only regarded as 
the slaves of his will ; and who, in their 
turns, despised him, as the object of their 
terror. 

Abdallah, by hasty marches, in a few 
days reached the capital ; and Ormah, in 
confusion and despair, the very morning 
on which he expected to receive the ho- 
mage of his subjects, and the adulation of 
his court, saw it completely invested. A 


Ormah. 


143 


heart conscious of its own demerits on 
such an occasion, must naturally suffer 
every pang. Bravery never associates with 
cruelty ; nor can resolution be united to 
tyrannic oppression. 

Ormah neither tried to divert the storm 
by activity, nor to combat it by political 
address. He neither expostulated with 
his attendants, who were about to desert 
him, for their deceit ; nor did he consult 
with them hotv to act : in a word, he was 
distracted and iiresolute. He knew that 
1 his commands in the present posture of 
I affairs, would carry no weight with his 
i subjects ; that it was in vain to attempt 
to arm men who owed him neither alle- 
5 giaiice nor regard. He ran raving round 
the palace ; bewailing his fate, with ex- 
pressions which denoted the most ab- 
ject debasement of mind ; and at last re- 
solved to change his dress, and to attemj3t 
his escape. Without making a single 
person privy to his design, he sallied out 
of his pavillion in the habit of a peasant ; 
and by the insignificance of his appear- 
ance, attracted no notice, and underwent 
no examination from the hostile bands, 
F 2 


144 Ormah, 

through whose ranks he was obliged to 
pass. 

Without any particular destination in 
view, he travelled on with the utmost 
speed, till darkness and fatigue obliged 
him to look about for a place where he 
might repose. Equally fearful of seeing 
the face of a subject, as of an enemy, he 
studiously avoided their dwellings ; and 
subsisted on the spontaneous produce of 
the earth, which luxury had before taught 
him to despise, but which were now ren- 
dered delicious by necessity. To pass the 
bounds of his own dominions, was his 
only fi ed object ; from aliens indeed he 
had little to hope, but from his own peo- 
ple he had every thing to fear. 

For many days, he allowed himself but 
a short time to rest ; till at length, certain 
that he must have far exceeded the limits 
of the kingdoms he had once ruled, and at 
the same time being exhausted with un- 
remitted fatigue, he made up to a cave 
which he saw on the side of a verdant hill, 
which he was then traversing. He found 
it by nature formed as a convenient retreat 
to conceal misery and fallen power ; and 
there he determined to take up his abodx- 


OrmaJu 


145 


The herbs and the roots which the vicini- 
ty of the cave aff )rded, supplied him with 
food ; and a crystal spring at a small dis- 
tance. slaked his thirst. 

In such a situation, the passions, of ma* 
levolence could not be exercised, nor the 
heart be inflated with the pageantry of 
grandeur. The mind of Ormah retired 
within itself ; he saw its deformity, and 
blushed ; he contemplated the state to 
which he was reduced, and acknowledged 
the justice of the Eternal. He beheld, in 
! its proper light, the nature of that authori- 
i ty to which he had been born, and witli 
the deepest humility confessed the un- 
worthy use to which it had been applied ; 

1 and though he knew it was now too late 
! either to prove the sincerity of his reforma- 
i tion, or atone for the tyranny of his op- 
pression, he resolved, by a life of austerity, 
and the service of Alla, to shew his con- 
trition, and to strive to regain the favour of 
Heaven. 

For several years he continued in the 
practice of every religious duty, and the 
mortification of every lust. The ris- 
mg sun heard his supplications to the 


146 


Ormah. 


Prophet ; and the twinkling stars at night, 
bore witness to his remorse. 

One morning, as he arose unusually 
early, and was offering up his adorations 
with all the fervour of penitential devotion, 
on a sudden, an old man of a most vene- 
rable appearance, whose silver beard des- 
cended far on his breast, stood before the 
astonished Ormah, and thus addressed 
him : 

“ Son of the dust ! though born to the 
sovereignty of nations, the Prophet has 
seen your contrition, and has accepted 
your prayers. You have found the fal- 
lacy of the maxims by which you former- 
ly ruled ; and experience will teach you 
wdsdom. Your neighbour, Abdallah, af- 
ter usurping your government, and com- 
mitting a series of cruelties, in which he 
but too nearly resembled yourself, is now 
removed to the banks of the eternal stream ; 
and the chiefs of your dominions are 
earnest in their inquiries after you, that 
the crown may not descend to the family 
of the usurper, but still remain in the 
regal line ot your ancestors. I will con- 
duct you this instant to your palace, and 
replace you on the throne.” 


Ormalu 


147 


Before the confounded Ormah could 
make any reply, he found himself seated 
on a sofa, in the midst of his palace, and 
suiToundcd by his nobles : whom his 
venerable companion thus addressed : 
‘‘ Behold in your sovereign Ormah, a me- 
morable instance of the justice of the 
Eternal, and of he omnipotence of his 
decrees. He has been tried and approved 
by the immortal Alla, and will be no long- 
er your tyrant, but your father.” Then, 
turning to Ormah — “ Remember,” said 
he, “ and let it be engraved upon the 
crown of every monarch upon earth, that 
Government is only a power delegated by 
the supreme^ for the happiness of mankind; 
and to that end, must be conducted by 
wisdom, justice, and mercy.” 

\\ ith these words he disappeared, and 
left Ormah and his nobles in m ;tual won- 
der and awe. tie was immediately ac- 
knowledged by all his subjects ; and, at 
their earnest request, resumed the exer- 
cise of power, and the reins of govern- 
ment : and, by a faithful observance of 
tlie maxims of his venerable instructor, 
endeared himself not only to his own 


148 Expectations* 

subjects, but to those of kingdoms very 
reniote. 

Yet amidst the applause he received, 
and continued to deserve, he scrupled not 
to acknowledge, that his hours of solitude 
and humiliaticsn were the most glorious 
parts of his life ; since in them he had 
learned to know himself, and to be service- 
able to mankind. 

Atter man} happy years, he died uni- 
versally lamented and respe cted ; his body 
was embalmed, and placed in the tomb of 
his ancestors ; and the name oi Ormah is 
still tamous in the East, and never men- 
tioned but with love, veneration, and re- 
gret. 


XXXVI. RAISING AND DISAPPOINTING 
EXPECTATIONS. 

To raise expectations, and then to dash 
them, after the mind has been long habi- 
tuated to indulge the pleasing dream, is a 
refinement in malice that would do honour 
to the ingenuity of demons. From such a 
nefarious practice the generous must 


Expectations. 149 

shrink with horror, — the honest revolt 
with disdain ; and none but the unfeeling 
and the uni)rincipled can think of it, with- 
out the self-consciousness of a turpitude 
too base to be named. 

To do all the good in your power, is 
only performing a duty. When a favour 
is conferred on a deserving object, you 
most particularly oblige yourselL To be 
satisfied with the poor, the negative merit 
of doing neither good nor harm^ may save 
from detestation, though it cannot entitle 
you to esteem ; but should you encourage 
false hopes, and practise on the unsuspect- 
ing, on purpose to deceive, you do an 
injury for which you can never atone ; 
and if you have any conscie. ee, you 
wound it to the core. 

The courtier’s promise, the lover’s vow, 
i and fashions smile, are proverbial for 
! their insincerity ; lout the frequency and 
the justice of this remark can never lessen 
the infamy of those who deserve it ; for 
till right and wrong are lost in undistin- 
guishable confusion, truth will still be the 
ornament of human nature — and falsehood 
its disgrace. 

But it is not only by words or by smiles 


150 Expectations* 

that a person may deceive, Hope may 
be wafted on a breath — it may be founded 
on a look — it may be sanctioned by minute 
regards, which it would argue insensibili- 
ty rather than vanity not to understand 
and apply. A number of slender circum- 
stances, combining to favour the delusion 
of expectation, so natural to the human 
breast, may amount to absolute demon- 
stration ; and mean is the subterhige of a 
cautious suppression of words, or of 
studied freedom from the legal forms of 
agreement ! 

However fashionable insincerity may be, 
still pride yourself on adhering to the gold- 
en maxims of truth. This conduct will 
secure your own peace of mind ; it will 
promote the happiness of your connexions; 
and render you at once estimable and 
esteemed. The smoothness of hypocrisy, 
and the gloss of artifice, may obtain you 
the character of being a man of the w orld; 
but they will debar you from ever reach-;ii 
ing the character of being a good man. 

Be scrupulously attached to your word 
— this is no more than common justice ; 
be also careful not to excite hopes, which 
you either cannot, or mean not to gratify. 


Expectations. 151 

Whether this is done by direct profession, 
or indirect inuendo, the guilt and the 
misery are the same. Numbers, whose 
unsuspecting innocence have rendered 
them credulous, and whom it is the 
greater villainy to deceive, have forfeited 
every sublunary joy by an insinuation 
from the artful, or a promise from the un2 
principled. The virtuous mind is averse 
to suspicion ; it is only a long habitude 
with vice, and a conscious sense of moral 
depravity, that teaches the low caution of 
distrust, and the vigilance of jealousy. 

In the soft intercourse of hearts, which 
cannot exist without a virtuous confidence, 
how base is it to dissemble ! In such a 
case as this, to plant the tender shoots of 
hope, and not to nourish them, or to pluck 
them up again, is in effect to tear the faith- 
ful heart, whose fibres cling round them, 
and to cloud the eye that beams, perhaps, 
with the pure splendors of a generous 
love. 

But cases might be multiplied without 
end, where deception is frequently fatal- - 
and surely it is always criminal. Be ex- 
tremely cautious, then, of inspiring hope ; 
but when once you have encouraged its 
r 8 


152 


Health, 


delightful visions in others, if possible, 
never frustrate its reasonable expectations. 
Remember, that truth and sincerity are 
virtues which will dignify the lowest sta- 
tion ; while no splendor of birth, no ac- 
cumulation of honours or wealth, can 
compensate for their want. These, in- 
deed, will render the deficiency more con- 
spicuous and deplorable ; for superior 
greatness should always be united to su- 
perior goodness, and exalted station with 
honourable conduct. 


XXXVII. HEALTH. 


Guard the dear boon — for know, that rosy health.; 
Exceeds of either Ind the treasur’d wealth. 


Though an attention to the art of re- 
gaining lost health is properly the province 
of the physician, no one ever preserved it 
long, or enjoyed it entirely, who did not 
himself pay some regard to its safety. 
Rut the greatest sublunary bliss is oiten 


Health. 


treated with indiiFerence while present — 
and when once gone, no care, no attention 
can always recal it. 

The young, borne on the wings of ar- 
dent hope, and eager in the pursuit of 
j)leasure, often draw so largely on the fund 
of health, that they become bankrupts, 
before they reach the noon of life ; and 
thus entail misery on a vast number of 
days, by the imprudent expenditure of a 
few hours. But can such complain that 
nature is unkind, when the fault resides 
wholly in themselves? 

There are, indeed, some constitutions 
so extremely delicate, some habits so ex- 
cessively irritable, that it is almost impos- 
sible to pass through the changes of sea- 
sons, and to fill up any place in society, 
without feeling the frame affected, or the 
mind unhinged, however carefully the one 
may be guarded by temperance, and the 
other by reason. Such persons are sin- 
cerely to be pitied, because they are born 
to be unhappy ; and inhuman must that 
heart be, that will not endeavour to allevi- 
ate those ills which defy cure, and can 
only be palliated by the attentions of 
friendship, and soothed by the tenderness 


154 


Health. 


of love. But delicacy of constitution, and 
excessive sensibility of mind, may, with 
proper precautions at an early age, be 
meliorated, though they cannot be wholly 
overcome. The body may be strength- 
ened by moderate and regular exercise, 
and by a prompt attention to those minute 
springs that actuate the human machine. 
The mind also may be diverted from 
brooding on ills, by indulging in harmless 
gaiety and cheerful society. This, indeed, 
will not lessen its susceptiblity, but it will 
render its sensations more diversified. Of 
this the valetudinary may be assured, that 
whatever increases the vigour of the frame, 
gives also a greater degree of tension to 
the mental powers ; for matter and mind, 
by the laws of their inseparable union, act 
reciprocally on each other. 

But it is to the ^ oung I address myself. 

Ye who now feast on the blissful frui- 
tion of health : ye who are j ust entering on 
the exercise of all \ our faculties, fresh and 
unimpaired, and prf)niise yourselves years 
of enjoyment, pause for a moment, before 
you determine on your course of life, and 
reflect, that ye may , ot be deceived ! In 
every tiling avoid excess ; and let tern- 


Health. 


155 * 


pcrance be your constant guest. View 
with horror the mad jollity of intoxication 
— appreciate the dignity of man ; and 
never sink to the nature of the beast. 
A^alue health as the first good ; and never 
wantonly forfeit it by the momentary 
pleasure, nor think that when once im> 
paried, it may be recovered with ease. 

“ See that sallow complexion, that death 
like eye, that faltering step, in the very 
opening of manhood. Know, that wretch- 
ed being was too eager to enjoy ; and 
surfeited at the feast, which might have 
satisfied for years. He rises from the table 
with regret — he repents of his folly — but 
repentance is in vain — he still covets, 
though he cannot enjoy — and with the 
natural love of life, is mixed the hope and 
the fear of death. His course is not natu- 
rally run ; but he is suddenly arrested in 
his career. He looks forward to the goal 
he might have reached — and sinks into 
the arms of despair. 

“ Observe that cripple, tottering on 
crutches, with scarcely a foot he dares to 
print on the ground. His features are con- 
torted with pain — the gout preys on his 
joints — the stone racks his loins. At in- 

r A. 


156 


Health. 


tervals of ease he affects jociilarit}^ — the 
next moment he writlies with af^ony ; yet 
he was once the pride of festivity, and the 
president of mirth. ‘ He lii igercd long at 
the wine,’ he kept the table in a roar. He 
broke a jest, as often as he emptied a glass. 
He toasted his friends, till he could not 
distinguish them from his foes. His con- 
stitution gave him repeated admonitions 
that it could not bear him through, if he 
did not desist. It was strong, but it would 
not submit to be abused — it would be a 
servant, but not a slave. It argued and 
warned in vain ; and being now brok- 
en by intemperance, reproaches him 
for his imprudence, and shrinks even from 
frugal enjoyments. He has doomed the 
remainder of his life to misery — and, per- 
haps, left hereditary disease, as the unalien- 
able portion of his posterity. 

“ Suer) views ‘ feelingly convince us 
what we are.’ Are you startled at the 
picture — dofe ypur bosom pant for happi- 
ness — lias old age and comfort charms ? 
learn to avoid excess — and early limit the 
delusions of joy. 

“ The mens sana in corpora sano is all 
that a wise man should really covet of tern 


157 


A liejiige J'rom Fabu 

poral goods, or can fully enjoy. This 
cannot be bought with wealth, nor will it 
listen to the solicitations of pomp. In 
this respect. Providence has been impar- 
tially just. All ranks are alike qualified 
for the fruition of health — and none can 
be happy without it. V\' hat is indispensa- 
bly necessary to the well-being of all, is 
in general equally distributed among all 
creation’s sons.” 


XXXVIII. POETRY A REFtJGR FROM 

PAIN. 

In a world where pain is unavoidable, 
and much misery is intermixed with a 
small share of fugitive pleasure, to be able 
to bear the ills of life with composure, 
shews some fortitude ; to find alleviations 
under their pressure, some degree of w is- 
dom. 

From the sweets of learning, in general, 
many seek a refuge from oppressive cala- 
mity ; but the fascinations of poetry arc 
more j^eculiarly estimable for this purpose. 
These, by creating visions of bliss, soothe 


158 


Refuge from Pain. 

distress ; or by giving a softened tone to 
the heart, obtund the force of adventitious 
ills. 

The author of the following sonnet to 
pain, has gratefully acknowledged the fa- 
vours of the muses, as far as they have be- 
friended him. — Their most benignant 
smiles are seldom accompanied with tem- 
poral advantages — but if they can scatter a 
few flowers over the thorny path of life, 
their acquaintance is worth cultivating, 
and mankind will be bettered by their in- 
fluence. 

SONNET TO PAIN. 


For countless days, and many a wakeful night. 
Thy form, O Pain ! has fill’d my weary eyes: 

Doom’d to distress, and bent beneath thy might. 
Thine is the tribute of incessant sighs. 

And can the muse thy scorpion stings entwine 
With verse, that loves to flaunt on pleasure’s 
shrine 1 

Yes ! from ihemuse this votive strain receive,— ♦ 
Alone the muse has taught my soul to bear; 

She from thy rage can win the short reprieve — 
She from my cheek can wipe the trickling 
tear. 

And when ^hy rankling tooth assails my frame, 
Thy pangs more piercing rack my feeling 
mind. 


Tom Restless, 159 

Deep though the sense of ills and wrongs in- 
flame, 

The muse sheds balm, and gives a woe re- 
fined. 


XXXIX. TOM RESTLESS. 

A STORT. 

“ A flitting stone gathers no moss so 
says the proverb, and it is true. Activity 
is not sufficient to ensure success, unless 
it be directed to one uniform end. The 
desultory bustle of unsteady minds, is only 
labour in vain. The path that leads to 
respectability and wealth, must be pursu- 
ed through all its asperites and obliquities 
if you wish to reach the object in view. 
The traveller who turns aside to gather 
every flower, or who sometimes hurries 
and sometimes loiters, will find himself 
distanced at last by those who calmly pace 
on, and are neither diverted by difficulties, 
nor attracted by every casual appearance 
of temporary pleasure. 

Tom Restless was one of the cleverest 
boys at the school where he was instituted. 


160 


Tom Restless. 


He outstripped his companions, when- 
ever he gave himself the trouble to enter 
into competition with them. At play- 
learning — every pursuit in which he en- 
gaged, he carried away the palm of supe- 
riority : but all his motions were irregu- 
lar ; and long- continued application to any 
kind of business was his aversion and con-, 
tempt. 

From school he was removed into the; 
compting-house of a W est- India mer- 
chant. His relations augured well to his 
success in commerce, from his known 
talents and activity. In any situation he 
might have slione ; but he chose rather to 
dazzle for a moment, than to preserve a 
clear and steady light. He became mas- 
ter of all the routine of the compting- 
house in less than twelve months, and at 
the same time was tired of its employ. 

Why, thought our hero, should he be 
longer confined to ledgers and waste- 
books ? Here he had nothing more to learn. 
His solicitations to be permitted to take a 
trading voyage for the benefit of his em- 
ployer, overcame both the merchant and 
his own relations. He was soon equip- 
ped ; and set sail for the West Indies in 


Tom Restless^ 


161 


raptures at the idea of seeing the world, 
A storm, however, which he had to en- 
counter before clearing the channel, gave 
Tom no very favourable opinion of the 
felicity of a sailor’s life — but the storm va- 
nished, and with it, his sense of danger 
and uneasiness. The remainder of the 
voyage was barren of occurrences. He 
landed in due time on the island of Ja- 
maica, to which the vessel was bound ; 
and in consequence of his eagerness to 
visit the new scenes which presented them- 
selves, his hurry, and his neglect of pro- 
per precautions, he soon fell sick of the 
endemial fever of the West Indies ; and 
with difficulty escaped the grave. Our 
adventurer now began to reflect on his im- 
i prudence, regretted his having left the 
i compting-house to encounter needless dan- 
I gers ; and began to form resolutions of 
I checking his natural propensity to change. 

I The vow formed in illness and under rc- 
! strain t, is seldom observed, when health 
and liberty return. Tom felt all the va- 
garies of his natural disposition as soon as 
he recovered. He made himself speedily 
acquainted with the management of sugar 
plantations, and with the West India trade 


162 


Tom Restless. 


in general. But as he possessed a heart 
of melting benevolence, the task-master 
met with his unqualified detestation — ^the 
situation of the slave awakened his most 
indignant feelings. 

He soon became disgusted with a traf- 
fic, in which blood was shed without pi- 
ty, and whips w^ere the reward of toil. 
He saw the ship freighted ^vith pleasure, 
and bade adieu to these islands without re- 
gret. He had a pleasant voyage — return- . 
ed full of information, and had obtained 
the credit of prudent and dexterous ma- 
nagement ; but he was sick of what he 
had seen ; and for once, goodness of prin- 
ciple united with versatility of disposition, 
to induce him to relinquish this branch cf 
commerce at least. But there were nu- 
merous other avenues to wealth in the mer- ; 
cantile profession ! True — had not l orn 
been tired of the whole, he might have se- 
lected parts, that w ould have suited almost 
any taste, and gratified the principles of 
any mind. 

For some time, hoAvever, he had set his * 
heart on being a soldier. When his con- 
nexions found that his resolution in this : 
respect could not be shaken, they procur- 


Tom Restless, 


163 


ed a liberation from his original engage- 
ments, and purchased a pair of colours for 
him. He joined his regiment, which was 
quartered in the country — strutted in a 
laced coat and cockade ; and thought him- 
self the happiest fellow alive. So he was 
for a few weeks — but here he found that 
he had little to learn, and less to practise ; 
and his mind revolted at the idea of quiet. 
Tom was ever impatient of inactivity — he 
found it necessary to be doing something, 
though soon tired of every thing ; and in 
conformity to this principle, he exchang- 
ed into a regiment, just about to sail for 
the East Indies. 

A new scene, and a new quarter of the- 
globe, again pleased and attracted his fan- 
cy. He anticipated the greatest felicity in 
prospect from his new change ; but for- 
tune determined otherwise. 1 he ship in 
which he had embarked, was wrecked on 
the Maldivia Islands. He singly preserv- 
ed life by swimming ; but could save few 
of those accommodations that render it 
delightful. As he hated idleness as much 
as he disliked any constant employ, he 
set about providing the means of subsis- 
tence with all possible diligence — ingra- 
F 5 


164 


Tom Restless* 


liated himself with the natives, and became 
a mighty favourite with their chief. Had 
not the thought of being cut off from po- 
lished society disturbed him, he might 
have been happy still. For a short space, 
he did not form any particular plan for 
effectuating his deliverance. He, indeed, 
kept a good look-out for any ship that 
might pass ; but such a chance was rare. 
At last he bethought himself of attempt- 
ing something. He persuaded the Mal- 
divians, that he could teach them to build 
ships. The bait took— in a few weeks 
the lirst vessel was constructed ; she was 
strong, but of rude formation ; and all were 
eager to see her launched, and to try her 
on the waves. Tom selected the best 
mariners, as well as those whom he 
thought most friendly to his interest, to 
have the honour of this experiment. He 
had fortunately saved a compass, and other 
necessaries from the wreck ; and had pri- 
vately laid in a small stock of provisions. 
The vessel sailed to a miracle — all were 
delighted with this nautic excursion ; and 
by degrees they lost sight of land. Now 
was the critical moment ! His associates 
wished to return ; he distributed some li- 


Tom Restless. 


165 


cjuors among them, and made a feint to 
tack about ; but the wind being pretty 
high and blowing oft' the shore, this could 
not be effected. He veered on another 
tack with no better success, as he wished 
to be believed. At length no person, ex- 
cept himself, knew the direction of the 
shore they had left. 

Night coming on, he steered by the 
compass, and kept his companions in good 
humour, by telling them there was no 
doubt of their landing next morning. In 
the meanwhile, he made the best of the 
wind and the time ; and as no one could 
presume to direct the course of the vessel 
but himself, all were fearful of interfering 
— and on the third day he providentially 
landed near Cape Comorin. 

From thence our hero undertook a long 
journey to Fort St. George, where he was 
soon replaced in his rank ; and sent with 
a detachment against one of the country 
powers w^ho had just revolted. Capt. 
Restless, as we should now call him be- 
haved with abundant resolution ; success 
crowned the endeavours of his country ; 
and he was rapidly rising in his new pro- 
fession, when he once more became dis- 


166 


Tom Restless* 


satisfied and disgusted with it, because he 
was confined to a garrison ; while the 
range of the whole peninsula of India 
would scarcely have gratified his roving 
ambition. 

As he had behaved with bravery, and 
evinced a fertility of resources on every 
emergency, he was allowed to sell out, 
though with concern for his loss ; and the 
very next day, he entered on board a ship 
bound to China, with no other view than 
to ascertain whether the Chinese women 
have smaller feet than the Europeans, from 
nature or from art ; and to drink tea, as 
he termed it, at the fountain head. 

He had no sooner arrived in China, 
than he wished to survey the country ; 
but he had nearly forfeited his life by the 
attempt. A country not to be seen, had 
no charms for Capt. Restless, and he re- 
turned in an India ship which was sailing 
for Europe, as wise as he went ; but with 
a very unfavourable opinion of Chinese 
hospitality, though he ought to have done 
justice to its policy. On reaching the 
Cape of Good Hope, he determined to 
proceed no farther, till he had visited the 
Hottentots ; and ascertained some facts 
in their formation and natural history. 


Tom Restless. 


167 


It would be endless to enumerate all 
his adventures in this quarter of the globe. 
Sometimes he was reduced to the greatest 
distress and danger ; but his ingenuity 
alwaj^s brought him off. At last he land- 
ed in England — found his father was no 
more — and, in consequence, took posses- 
sion of his patrimony. 

It might have been supposed his adven- 
tures would now have terminated, and 
that he would have been happy in the en- 
joyment of that quiet, which fortune allow- 
ed him to possess. No such thing : — he 
had never made the tour of Europe ; and 
he was determined not to sit down as a 
country gentlman, till he had visited the 
continent. He soon reached Paris — here 
he began to display his usual activity ; he 
could neither be idle, nor usefully employ- 
ed. He began with uttering some specu- 
lative opinions, by the adoption of which, 

1 he conceived that the French government 
1 might be vastly improved, and the conn- 
I try made one of the most desirable in the 
1 world. For these, he was speedily ren'ard- 
j ed with a lodging in the Bastille. After 
1 a close confinement of five years, he was 
I liberated — but the hardships he had un- 

I F 6 


168 


Tom Restless. 


dergone, ruined his health — and he died 
at Paris, in a few weeks after he had reco- 
vered his liberty, and just before the de- 
molition of his prison. 

REFLECTION. 

The heedless career of Tom Restless 
will, I hope, instruct the young, never to 
give way to a roving and unsettled turn of 
mind. He might have been happy, he 
might have been honoured in any situation, 
had he stuck to it ; but he rendered him- 
self miserable by a romantic search, after 
he did not know what. 

Never, on slight grounds, relinquish the 
station in which you are first placed. If 
you once deviate from the traek intended 
for you, it is no easy matter to recover 
it. It is therefore wise to oppose the first 
irregular sallies of the mind. The road 
of life will be easy, when once you have 
obtained a mastery oyer yourself. 


169 


XL. MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 

It is sincerely to be lamented^ that while 
languages are taught with the utmost 
grammatical accuracy, and the sciences, 
which are capable of demonstration, are 
precisely defined and inculcated, the no- 
blest of all sciences, — the knowledge of 
ourselves and our duties, is left to be 
picked up by chance, is liable to be 
distorted by prejudice, and sullied by 
falsehood. 

Lectures on Moral Philosophy are 
less frequent, even where some attention 
is paid to this important subject, than 
on any other branch of human learn ng. 
From what does this baneful defect arise ? 
Is it presumed, that men are born per- 
fect in morals, or that the school of the 
world will sufficiently teach them ! Or 
is the study considered as laying primitive 
restraints on human action ; and therefore 
incompatible with that liberty of choice, 
which some so foolishly wish to inculcate ? 

The neglect, I am sure, will be allow- 
ed, though the cause of it may be hypo- 
thetical or unknown ; and the melancho- 


170 Moral Philosophy 

ly efFects of this oversight in education, 
are perceptible in the conduct of almost 
every person with whom we are conver- 
sant. In consequence of the want of in- 
struction in this most valuable part of learn- 
ing, young persons launch into the world, 
without principles to restrain, or experi- 
ence to guide them. They are the slaves 
of passions, whose tendency they have not 
learned to consider ; they are the dupes 
of prejudice, which pervert natural reason, 
and dishonour human sagacity. Where- 
as, did they start with some certain rules 
of action, though they might not always 
avail to keep them right, they would in- 
form them, when they were wrong. Re- 
flection would, by degrees, give just prin- 
ciples an habitual influence ; and men 
would, in consequence, become more vir- 
tuGU s and more wise. 

We have some ^ ery valuable modern 
piiblications on the subject of moral and 
political duties. These cannot well be se- 
parated ; for man has a private and a pub- 
lic station to fill — he must perform his 
part in the circle of his own immediate 
connexions, and likewise regard himself 
as a member of the conimunity. But 


Transmigrations of^ 171 

none of these works have been introduced 
into schools, where alone they could have 
their full and desired elFect. By those, 
indeed, who are more advanced in years, 
they are rather studied than acted on; 
and are more valued as elegant specu- 
lations, than as practical lessons of con- 
duct. Is not this unhappily the case in 
regard to religion also? 

I have pointed out an omission in the 
common modes of education. May those 
whose business it is, become sensible of 
their duty to supply it ! 

Arts, sciences, and languages, unless 
an acquaintance with them tends to make 
us better men, are of little comparative 
value, when put in the scale with sound 
principles, whether religious, moral, or po- 
litical. 


XLI. TRANSMIGRATIONS OF AN 
EASTERN PRINCE. 

Being a warm admirer of the metemp- 
sychosical doctrine of Pythagoras, I was 
one evening amusing myself with reading 


172 Transmigrations of 

the adventures of a flea ; and, while my 
passions were much agitated with the re- 
cital, my meditations were disturbed by 
the discordant strains of t\^ o noisy cats, 
which had chosen a situation near my 
study, for the scence of their nocturnal 
dalliance. 

Vexed at this unseasonable and un- 
grateful interruption, I rang my bell, and 
ordered a servant to remove those teasing 
animals. He obeyed me in an instant, 
though I was ignorant of the mode in 
which he executed my commands ; and 
with a heart glowing with every tender 
and humane sensation, I soon committed 
myself to the arms of Morpheus. 

I had not, however, long enjoyed my 
slumbers, before Fancy began to exert her 
iT^mic power, and to present her train of 
varied illusions. 

Things past, present, and future, crowds 
cd into my imagination at once, and I 
was perplexed with a multiplicity of ob- 
jects ; when, methought, a young man of 
extraordinary beauty entered the room, 
and waving his hand, demanded my at- 
tention. 

“ I am well acquainted,” said he, “ with 


An Eastern Prince. 


173 


the philanthropy of your disposition, and 
I am convinced it Avill afford you the 
i highest satisfaction, to find you have, un- 
: knowingly, contributed to my felicity. 

I The sense of gratitude, which must ever 
I fill my bosom, at present impels me to re- 
late the adventures in which I have been 
engaged ; to you, they will, no doubt, ap- 
pear very extraordinary ; and happy, in- 
deed, shall I esteem myself, if the only re- 
turn I am able to make you, should prove 
any way acceptable. 

“ Know, then, that the first time I as- 
sumed the human form, and consequently 
the sera from which I must date my fa- 
\ culty of recollection, was about half a cen- 
I tury ago. I was born the heir-apparent of 
I the Rajah of Cananore ; and brought up 
with a tenderness and care, to which my 
f expectations entitled me. My early years 
* were spent in acquiring the literature of 
Li the East, and in hearing precepts of wis- 
K dom and virtue, from the best and most 
enlightened men in my father’s court. My 
ji youth was chiefly passed in the gratifica- 
;; tion of those passions, to which the cus- 
i| toms of that country do not deem it cri- 
ii: minal to yield. I was indulged with the 


174 Transmigrations of 

most expensive amusements, and was 
taught to demand them as my due. 
Youth and beauty voluntarily surrendered 
themselves into my arms ; and my wishes, 
however extravagant, were generally com- 
plied with, the instant they were known. 
In this round of irrational pleasures, I for- 
got the maxims which had been early 
taught me ; I disregarded the counsels of 
age, and the dictates of prudence ; and 
attached myself to the juvenile and gay, 
whose pursuits, and whose pleasures, were 
similar to my own ; and with the conta- 
mination of whose vices, my soul became 
every day more base and enfeebled. 

“ But vapid repetition soon renders a 
life of this sort irksome ; and, indeed, 
every pleasure which has not its source in 
the mind, infallibly palls on the sense. I 
was not long permitted, however, to in- 
dulge in these vicious excesses ; the cup 
had hardly become tasteless, when it was i 
at once dashed from my lips. j 

“ The English, who had already pos- 
sessed themselves of some of the moat i 
fertile provinces of Indostan, having heard :■ 
of the riches of my father’s dominions, ) 
wanted no other cccasion to commence i 


■Afi Eastern Prince. 


175 


war against him. The most respectful 
representations of his pacific disposition^ 
and the innocence of his conduct, with 
respect to them, were of no avail : they 
were bent on vvctr, and, I as heir- apparent 
was called to the command of my father’s 
troops, that I might fight for the protec- 
tion of those dominions, over w hich I was 
born to reign. 

“ We met our enemies with a nume- 
rous army ; but neither our skill nor our 
courage were by any means equal to theirs: 
their immoderate thirst of gold made them 
despise every danger w^hich opposed its 
acquisition ; while we, who were at once 
enervated with plenty, and wholly ufjtrain- 
ed to arms, were routed in the very first 
onset. I was myself wounded and taken 
prisoner; aid though I was amused by 
the most flattering promi es, and treated 
with a marked attention, that I might be 
induced to make discoveries respecting 
my paternal wealth, death closed my eyes ; 
on the third day after tlie defeat — and I 
immediately found myself transformed 
into an Ape, and rirnging the forests of 
Madagascar. In this state of savage so- 
litude, 1 had time to reflect on the follies 

VOL. I. G 


176 Transmigrations of 

of tny fonve onduct, and v as unable to 
dtiiv, that my pres nt low r nk in crea- 
tion had been \’ell de served, by the turpi- 
tude of my pas’. c ffl nces. I avoided, as 
much as possible, the society of those ani- 
mals whose form I was doomed to bear ; 
and retreating from the thick impervious 
woods, where prudent instinct had taught 
my companions to remain, I roved in 
search of some human habitation ; under 
the foolish idea of making my condition 
tnown, and of exciting commisseration 
for my fate. 

“ I soon discovered the abodes of men : 
but alas ! I still found mt self at a loss for 
the m»ans of unfolding my melancholy 
story ; and while I remained in this state 
of hesitation, doubt and despair, the trum- 
pets began to sound, the hunters appear- 
ed, and I fled for the preservation of life ; 
since, wretched as it was, 1 hid not suffi- 
cient resolution to make a voluntary sur- 
render of it, lest I should be consir.ned to 
a still more miserable future existence. 

‘‘ Some of the ti ain, however, having 
noticed the course I took, soon mar e it 
known to the rest ; and the King of Ma- 
dagascar, with his whole court, now pur- 


Eastern Prince. 


177 


sued me with the most determined perse*' 
verance. Unacquainted with the strata*- 
gems of the species Tor eluding my un- 
pitying pursuers, ' set up a hideous cry, 
as I fled : my voice led the hunters to 
their prey ; and, in a few minutes, I was 
surround d by men and dogs, with w^hose 
united force I maintained an unequal com- 
bat for some minutes ; when the specir of 
a grandee pierced my heart, and gave me 
a new e > istence. 

“ My soul was now infused into a 
Sloth, and 1 opened my eyes in another 
quarter of the globe. Under this form, 
my miseries were undescribable ; every 
effort was ittended with e criiciating pain^ 
and I ofen envied the lot of my former 
companions, whose society I had till then 
despised, and whose lives I had regarded 
as the summit of infelicity. Odious in 
my form, and incapable of an extensive 
sphere of action, I spent three years under 
this melancholy transformation ; till at 
length, having ascended a tree, and con- 
sumed all the verdure wdth in my reach; 
in order to save the trouble of making a 
wearisome descent, I collected myself into 
as narrow a compass as possible ; and 


173 Transmigrations of 

dropping from a branch to the ground, 
fortunately fell on a rattlesnake, \\^hich 
stung me with a fury that the hurt it had 
received naturally prompted ; and in a few 
hours, I was liberated from this most hor- 
rible of lives. 

next transformation was into an 
inhabitant of the sky. I was clothed with 
the plumage of the Albatross, and endow- 
ed with all the instincts natural to that re- 
markable race of birds. I was now a de- 
nizen of the purer air, and thoug] .t my 
sufferings were drawing near to a conclu- 
sion. I congratulated myself on being 
emancipated from the bodies of an ape 
and a sloth ; and formed such ideas of 
bliss, in my new state, as I was very eager 
to realize. Accordingly, I joined my 
feathered companions, and soared into the 
immense regions of ther. Here, it is true, 
I was free from danger, and from fear ; 
but the calls of nature demanded gratifi- 
cations, which were with difficulty satis- 
fied. Continually hovering on the wing, 
in search of prey, I became emaciated with 
fatigue and e ,pectation ; and, beiiig re- 
garded as one of the most formid:ible ene- 
mitjs of the winged tribe, our society was 


An Eastern Prince, 


179 


shunned with the most Ciireful circumspect 
tir)n, and our very sight dreaded, as the 
certain messengers of death. 

“ I soon became weary of a life of such 
incessant hunger and fatigue, and almost 
wished to reanimate the inactive br.dv of 
the sloth. Sleeping, one day, on the bo- 
som of the air, and lowering too near the 
watery element, I became entangled in the 
shrouds of a ship, which was navigat- 
ing the great South Sea ; and, being in- 
stantly secure d by the watchful mariners, 
was closely confined, as an object of con- 
siderable curiosity in natural history.-— 
During the voyage, I was treats d with 
I every indulgence, and seemed happy in 
i the exchange I had made ; but no sooner 
I had the ship arrived in England, to which 
country she belonged, than I was con- 
I signed to the founder of a celebrated mu- 
I seiim in London ; and, either from the 
change of climate, or the effects of food to 
which 1 had been unaccustomed, I soon 
paid the debt of nature ; and my soul was 
sent to animate the bo iy of a Race- Horse, 
‘‘ I was now treat d with a respect al- 
most bordering on adoration ; I had ser- 
vants to attend me, with provisions in 
c 9 


180 Transmigratwns of 

abundance; and, under this form, miglit 
have been pertectly haj^py, had not the re- 
collection of my original state rendered 
me dissatisfied with every condition, in- 
ferior to that which I once possessed. I 
had now reached my third year, and every 
assiduity was doubled to render my situa- 
tion more agreeable ; but, alas ! little did 
I tlien know for what purpose. I was, 
however, soon brought under the menage; 
and in being broke, as my owner called it, 
suffered pains inexpressible. N o sooner 
was my education » completed, than I was 
entered to run at Newmarket ; and the 
most extravagant sums were betted on my 
success. I entered the lists with ardour, 
lest I sh »uld suffer for my ill- success ; ac- 
clamations attended my course ; and every ' 
face was filled with admiration at my fleet- : 
ness. I won the prize ; but, in straining i 
against my formida.ble op])onent, I burst . 
a princi])i!l bk od- vessel, and fell down at ; 
the post, in the moment of victory. 

“My ne\t rank in the scale of exist- 
ence, was that of a C;.t ; and it was myi^ 
lot to fall under the j.rotection of a lady offil 
quality in this neighbourhood, rem ark able 
for her attachment to the feline race. Here 


An Eastern Prince, 


181 


I enjo 3 ^ed every pleasure which the choic- 
est viands and attendance could bestow, 
and rose higher in my mistress’s regard 
than most of her own species ; but 1 was 
confined to her room, and restraint is al- 
ways irksome. I found means, howe' er, 
this evening, to escape frf)m m\' prison ; 
and tempted by the charms of your tabby, 
was induced to linger beyond the hours of 
prudence. The servant whom you com- 
missioned to remove me, executed his or- 
I der with effect : he presently caught me in 
i the dark ; and, seeing 1 was a stranger, 
i*had a mind to make an experiment, by 
wrenching my jaws open, and pouring a 
■ glass of brandy down my throat. He had 
heard that this operatio? i was fatal to our 
‘ race, and the event has proved that he was 
! not mistaken. I died in a few minutes, 

! in agonies not to be expressed ; and, with 
i ineffable pleasure, found myself once more 
i endued with the human form. 

“ Such have been my adventures ; and 
I entreat you to lay them before the pub- 
lic. If humanity can touch the breasts of 
your countrymen — if feeling be not total- 
ly extinct, they will perhaps commisserate 
my misfortunes, and learn to prevent evils, 


182 


On Connexiom, 


similar to those which their cruelty’ has 
doomed me to experience,’’ 

I was about to congratulate my agreea* 
ble intruder on his elevation to his former 
rank ; and, in fancy, eagerly seized his 
hand. The effort I made was too violent 
for the silken bands of sleep ; I opened 
my eyes, and the vision was no more. 


XLII. ON FORMING CONNEXIONS. 

Man is born a social being : and h6 
must do violence to his nature, before he 
can shake off those ties that link him to 
his kind. But universal philanthropy, 
lovely as it is, must be founded on partial 
and particular attachments, to operate with 
due force. The heart that is not warmed 
by individual love, and select friendship, 
is incapable of expanding to great and ex* 
alted sentiments : it may feign, but it can- 
not feel the generous glow of affection, the 
ardour of patriotism, or the throb of bene* 
volqnce, 

Priv ate attachments being then the foun- 
dation of happiness or misery, the criterion 


0?z Corniexions. 


183 


of worth, and the source of all that is va- 
luable or dreadful in life, can too much 
care be employed in forming them, in ex- 
tracting theii sweets, and avoiding their 
pains ? 

Few are the pleasures that we can sin- 
cerely and honourably enjoy, without the 
participation of others ; but on the other 
hand, solitary misery is not worth a thought 
compared to that which tlie mind feels, 
when it is unfortunate, through the want 
of love or duty in those on whom it has 
'{reposed its confiden e ; or when its dis- 
tresses involve the objects of its fondest 
regard. 

A man may bear the stings of ingrati- 
tude or the infliction of wrong, from such 
, as he never loved ; he may wrap himself 
I up in the self-consciousness of rectitude, 
and despise the opinion he ne'.er courted ; 

I but ii‘ the friend on whom he has relied is 
|| treacherous; if the bosom on which he 
has leaned is false, or regardless of his 
peace, humanity can meet with no severer 
I trial ; and such poignant woe can scarcely 
admit of alleviation. 

To be cautious in forming connexions 
is only common prudence ; to be firm in 


184 


0?t Con7i€:ciom. 


maintaining them when once formed, Is a 
duty in which you cannot be deficient, 
without suffering as much as you can in- 
flict. Sudden attachments are always in- * 
discreet, and often fatal. ry those in 
whom you wish to repose trust with the 
nicest regard to their real, and not their 
specious qualities. Found every affection ■ 
of the mind on principle. Let not beauty * 
pass for merit — the affected smile of com- ; 
placency for good humour, nor levity for 
wit. Never give way to injurious opi- I 
nions against any one, without the fullest j 
conviction that they are deserved ; but, | 
above ail, take care never to form too par- i 
tial an opinion, till you have had an op- ■ 
portunity of aseertainir.g its pro])riety. ; 

Young persons are apt to imagine, that 
the convivial companion, whose profes- 
sions of regard rise with the absence of his 
reason, is firmly to be relied on — and that ’ 
the partner in foily will be the consoler of- 
distress. Delusive e pect: tiou ! True 
frienddnp must be grafted on virtuous 
pursuits, and cemented by rational endear- 
ments. A similarity in vicious taste \vill 
form no lasting tie ; it cannot bear the test 
®f reflection. Thought will teach you to 


On Connexions, 


18S 


despise, or make you despised, if your 
uniou is that of infamy : on the contrary^ 
a congenial disposition for what is lauda- 
ble, will reciprocally endear. Such a 
friendship vvill g-iin stability from the 
storm, and the gak s of adversity will root 
it the deeper. Without a friend, indeed, 
it is impossible to know happiness ; but 
how much misery has arisen from the 
prostitution of this sacred name ! 

There are, however, ties still dearer 
dian friendship, and of more important 
operatic • on our lives. Love, that cor- 
dial drop of bliss, that sovereign balm for 
woe, as it is of the first consequence to our 
enjoyments, so it is frequently the origin 
of our deepest distress. If this is not 
founded on reason, it is a flame that con- 
sumes ; if it is placed on an unworthy ob- 
ject, and this discovery made too late, the 
heart can never more know peace. Every 
1 hour increases the torments of reflection : 
and hope, that soothes the severest ills, is 
i here turned into despair ; for strong must 
1 that mind be which can reconcile itself to 
ithe greatest of all human disappointments ; 
j or unfeeling must it be, to disregard them I 
I In tiie tender connexions, mhid must 


186 


On Co7inexio7is. 


assimilate to mind, to give a reasonable 
prospect of felicity ; and after they are 
irrevocably fixed, the wish to oblige should 
anticipate the request ; views, interests, 
pursuits — all should be mutual, and 
spring from a sense of duty, prompted by 
a principle of love ; else that state which 
may be productive of the purest pleasures 1 
and the highest satisfactions, will be con- 
verted to a bane and a curse. Here, 
negative happiness cannot exist, as far 
as regards cultivated and feeling minds 
tlie brutal or the insensate may repose in 
the shade of indifference ; but in propor- 
tion as the soul is formed for enjoyment, 
it will be awake to all the misery of its 
fate ; and every neglect of the duty it has 
a right to expect, every perverse word, 
every action of stubborn contempt, will ■ 
leave an impression indelible and agoniz- 
ing. Even the sullen look will dim the 
eye of love ; and the frown sink into the ' 
heart of sensibility. 

In a friend, virtue is an indispensable 
qualification ; but in love, virtue must be ' 
adorned by an amiable disposition and a 
good temper, or it canMieither deserve nor 
ensure regard. The Qualities that most : 


187 


Popularity, 

endear are frequently the least daz'^ling ; 
tlie smile of good humour is more impres- 
sive than the force of wit. 

May these desultory h’nts have some 
weight with those who are about to enter 
on the stage of life, and have not yet made 
a faial step. They flow from a heart-felt 
conviction of their truth ; and from an ar- 
dent wish tl>at they may be useful. 


LXIII. POPULARITY. 

To endeavour to deserve the favoura- 
ble opinion of the public, is a noble ambi- 
tion ; but to court it by mean compliances 
and pitiful lures, is debasing to the dignity 
of man, and shews a want of true great- 
ness of soul. The huzzas of a mob, and 
the acclamations of the ignorant, are not 
Worthy the desire of the wise, and arc be- 
neath the acceptance of the good. 

The most worthless characters indeed, 
are generally the greatest favourites with 
the herd of mankind. A plausible man- 
ner, a low condescension, an action of dis- 
grace, suited to the tastes intended to be 
Q B 


188 Popularity, 

pleased, will gain more applause from the 
crowd, than a long life dedicated to virtue, 
and spent in silent benevolence. 

Rank, talents, and learning, when they 
sink beneath their level, on purpose to 
gain popularity, will seldom be disappoint- 
ed of their aim ; but they w ill have little 
reason to be proud of their acquisition. 
The conscious dignity of worth must be 
lost, before such a pitiful ambition can ac- 
tuate the mind ; and even allowing that 
the enjoyment of popular applause is grati- 
fying for the moment, how little is it to be 
depended on ! So sudden, among the bulk 
of mank nd, is the transition from one ex- 
treme to another, that the clap of approba- 
tion, and the hiss of contempt, are only 
distinguished by slight shades ; and he 
who is weak enough to exult on hearing 
the former, may in a very short time be 
mortified with the sound of the latter. 

Strange infatuation ! to pursue a phan- 
tom so fugitive, a bliss so uncertain as the 
acclamations of the people! Yet how 
many are there who sacrifice health, for- 
tune, and friends, to this fancied good ; 
who prefer being flattered by fools to the . 
approbatiQn of die wise ; and who risque ( 


18 P 


Stenography. 

fcvery thing that is valuable in life, or ex- 
cellent in morals, rather than not gain the 
praise of the worthless, which they are 
sensible they ought to despise. 

Every person at first setting out should 
study to acquire and display a firmness of 
character, which will neither bend to unde- 
served censure, nor be elated with the 
voice of unmeaning applause : he ought 
neither to seek nor to shun popularity : but, 
acting uniformly on proper principles, to 
leave to fortune the event. Without this 
firmness, man becomes the shuttlecock of 
opinion — he is bandied about in sport—* 
he shifts with every gale that moves the 
ocean of life, and never reaches the haven 
©f peace. 


XLIV. STENOGRAPHY. 

“ What curious letters you are making, 
and how fast you write!’’ said Henry 
to his flither. 

The father always was of opinion, that 
inc*d^‘ntal explanations of what attracted 
tlie notice of children, was the most effect- 


190 


Stenography, 

ual method of impressing knowledge. 
He never had witnessed, and therefore 
could not allow the utility or advantage of 
formal lectures ; but when the advice or 
instruction rose as it were out of the sub- 
ject b fore their eyes, he never failed to 
embrace the opportunity, and to say what 
he wished should be remembered. 

“ Henry,” observed he, “ I am writing 
Short Hand, or as it is frequently called. 
Stenography, which means the same thing. 
It is a very ancient and useful art ; but 
we are indebted to modern times for all 
the perfection to which it has been brought. 
I learned it early, and have practised ac- 
cording to various systems, with different 
degrees of success ; but for some years I 
have confined myself to one, which either 
my partiality or my reason has taught me 
to consider as the best : very easy it cer- 
tainly is. I shall be happy to teach you 
the method ; or when you are old enough, 
you may learn it yourself, without my 
assistance, 

“ Stenography, in its most extended 
use, is to take down from the mouth of a 
speaker, the words as fast as they can be 
properly expressed. This degree of per- 


Stenograph'^. 191 

fection, however, in the art is only to be 
acquired by long practice and diligent ap- 
plication ; and unless when it is intended 
as a profession, an inferior share of adroit- 
ness may suffice. To be able to copy 
with expedition, any inscription or piece 
of writing for which we have not leisure 
to employ long-hand — to keep memoran- 
da and accounts in a character not general- 
ly legible, and to note down the heads of 
lectures, sermons, or harangues, is as 
much as most persons have occasion to 
accomplish. 

“ And should you have the misfortune 
to be an author, from necessity or Irom 
choice, you may save much time, by com- 
posing at first in Stenography ; and this 
likewise, will prevent the visions of fancy 
from being lost by the irretention of me- 
mor}^ 

“ I have been composing what you now 
see. The ideas frequently rise quicker 
than they can be expressed in the common 
way. This art relieves the recollective 
powers at once, and if at any time a happy 
conception glides across the horizon of the 
mind, it must be embodied in an instant ; 
or, like a meteor, it will disappear* 

G 4 


192 Carter and two Horses. 

“ These are the principal advantages of 
Stenography ; if you think them worth 
a care, they may easily be made your 
own.” 


XLV. THE CARTER AND THE TWO 
HORSES. 

A FABLE. 

A Farmer hired a carter, and gave him 
the charge of two horses, which we shall 
distinguish by the names of Surly and 
Softly^ recommending an attention to feed 
and dress them well. This trust the carter 
un ertook, and endeavoured to acquit 
himself with impartiality between the two 
beasts ; but he soon found that Surly was 
restive and ill-tempered. If he went to; 
feed him he was in danger of being bitten ; 
or if he used the curry-comb, he was never 
safe from being kicked. Sometimes he 
would neitlier submit to be led nor driven ; 
if he was wished to go one may, he di- 
rectly went the other ; and, in short, ren- 
dered himself so disagreeable by his un- 


Cartel^ and two Horses. 


193 


tractable behaviour, that the carter began 
to neglect him, and to abridge him of his 
daily fare and dressing. 

Sojtly, on the contrary, was mild and 
manageable. He turned with a word — he 
went without the whip — and never attempt- 
ed to shew any will of his own. He 
seemed thankful when fed, and was pleased 
to be curried. The carter of course paid 
particular attention to his favourite steed, 
-and loved to see him look well. 

Surly ^ finding himself neglected, com- 
plained to his master, that the servant did 
not do his duty by him ; that he was nei- 
ther |fed nor dressed as he ought; and 
that, Tie was determined not to submit any 
longer to such gross partiality, in favour of 
SoMy. 

Tpiie farmer summoned the carter to a 
healing. The servant owned that it was 
imjiossible to do his duty by Surly — he 
explained the different tempers of the two 
homes, and their manner of behaviour, 
witch the master indeed well knew ; but 
he/was willing to appear impartial. When 
he had heard the w^hole case, he passed 
thii: just sentence on Surly. 


194 Carter and two Horses • 

“You ridiculous animal, to talk of du- 
ty when you do nothing to deserve love, 
how can you expect to be treated like 
Sojtl^? Your whole study seems to be 
to give the carter uneasiness and trouble ; 
and he wisely leaves you to yourself, that 
w’ant may bring you to reason, I com- 
mand him to persevere in this treatment, 
till you submit ; for know that affection 
cannot be forced by any claims of duty, nor 
attention secured but by a sense of dcserv- 
ing it.’’ 

MORAL. 

The least deserving are generally the 
most tenacious of their supposed rights 
and privileges ; but what is not prompt* 
ed by love, will seldom be paid oa the 
weaker principle of duty. 


195 


XLVI. PREJUDICE. 

■ THE CHARACTER OF MELVILLE. 

Nothing is more common or more dis- 
graceful to human nature than Preju- 
dice. It is frequently, however, the lethal 
.draught bestowed on genius, the lurid 
plant that shades the brows of merit, and 
corrodes its heart. Vice and ignorance 
alone escape its poison ; but it will suffer 
few to burst through the shade, who pos- 
sess no other recommendations than worth 
and learning. On those qualities it fixes 
with more than mortal enmity ; and soon- 
er than relinquish its hold, will torture in- 
genuity and sacrifice truth, to deal the fa- 
tal blow. 

Melville was born with few adv an- 
tages from fortune, but many frorn na- 
ture ; and cultivation was not wanting to 
render the soil as fertile as it was good. 
The colour of his destiny was early per- 
ceptible. At school he united diligence 
to capacity; and bore away^ the prize 
from all his fellows ; but as his modesty 
was still greater than his abilities, those. 


196 Prejudice, 

whom be outstripped in the literary race, 
felt themselves safe in depreciating what 
they could not equal. And because he 
never wished to assume the least superio- 
rity over the most ignorant, prejudice was 
unwilling to allow that he possessed the 
merit, for w'hich he would not contend. 

It is generally found, that the most su- 
perficial are the most self- conceited and 
presuming. Melville saw this, and 
blushed ; not for himself, but them. As 
he was obliged to be the architect of his 
own fortune, he had early to combat with 
a world for which his disposition was not 
fitted. He could not cringe — he could 
not flatter. He could feel obligation bet- 
ter than he could express it ; but his na- 
tural reserve was often ascribed to pride ; 
and his want of wwds, was set down for 
a w^ant of gratitude. 

Melville, howwer, w^as fortunate 
enough to obtain a few friends, who saw 
his native worth, through the external 
veil that concealed it from vulgar eyes ; 
and whom the voice of prejudice could 
not detach from his interest. They knew 
his modesty, and did not wait for solicita- j 
tion to ser^^e him ; and they were well re- ^ 


Prejudice. 197 

paid for their generous exertions in his 
favc,ur, by the attachment of a heart, that 
would have bled to prove its gratitude. 

But as he could not court the world, 
nor comply with its foolish or wicked cus- 
toms, it still held him at bay ; and if it 
could not deny the praise of desert, it tar- 
nished the laurels he ought to have worn, 
or intercepted the rewards that were his 
due. 

Prejudice, with distorted optics, sur- 
veyed his every action and expression. 
What he said, and what he did not say — 
what he did, and what he did not do, were 
equally perverted and misrepresented. 
Such are the effects of this malignant pest, 
that they blast the best deeds, obscure the 
fairest fame, and sully the purest inten- 
tions. Melville felt this with patient 
submission ; and his silence and his sub- 
mission were attributed to the conviction 
of guilt. 

An amiable diffidence, that checks a 
reply to impertinence, or prevents the 
quickness of retort, leads the ungenerous 
to trespass, because they are not afraid of 
|Opposition ; but to wound the unresisting, 
ris the grossest cowardice ; and to attack 


198 


Prejudice. 

the peaceable, savours of brutality. De- 
licacy of sentiment shrinks from the 
slightest touch ; and is unwilling to inflict 
on others, what it feels hard to bear itself. 
Melville acted on this principle ; but 
his fear of giving offence, his unwilling- 
ness to proceed to extremities, gained the 
imputation of timidity at best, and often 
gave an encouragement to insult. Few 
were at the trouble to estimate his good 
qualities ; and as he tvas little solicitous 
to set them off to advantage himself, it 
was by the generality considered that he 
possessed none. But his mind was too 
great to stoop to the mean artifices that 
gain popular applause. He saw the de- 
lusive principles of human action, and be- 
wailed them ; he was an enemy to no one 
— he was a well-wisher to all ; yet to the 
last moment of his life he lay under the in- 
fluepxe of prejudice, which he either could 
not, or would not remove. His heart was 
softened by distress — with a calm indiffe- 
rence he looked beyond the present scene ; 
and soared where impartial justice will be 
temperc d with the sweetness of merev. 


The Hydro statical Lamp. 199 

REFLECTION. 

Wherever Prejudice exists, there ge- 
nerosity of sentiment is a stranger, justice 
is despised, and the heart is dark and gloo- 
my, as the passions that inspire it. In 
the objects, however, niost marked by 
prejudice, real merit may generally be 
found : it is the shade that attends the 
sunshine of ^vorth, and it is often the only 
return for desert. 


XLVII. THE IIYDROSTATICAL LAMP. 

Professor Wilson of Glasgow, in the 
Transactions of the Royal Society of 
Edinburgh, gives a very entertaining ac- 
count of this lamp, which may easily be 
made, and tried. As an exercise for ju- 
venile ingenuity, and to draw the attention 
to the phenomena of nature, we abridge 
his description, and the principles on which 
the appearances are solv^ed. 

The hydrostaticiil lamp consists of a 
I small circular piece of common writing 
F paper, about three-eighths of an inch in 
G 5 


200 21ie Hydrostatical Lamp, 

diameter, having about a quarter of an 
inch of soft cotton thread, standing up 
through a puncture in the middle, by way 
of a wick. 

This being placed on the surface of 
pure salad oil, contained in a bason or flat 
glass vessel, is no sooner lighted, than it 
immediately sails forward in some direc- 
tion, till it meets the side of the vessel, and 
afterwards takes a circular course ; alwa}^s 
bearing up towards the sides of the ves- 
sel ; and thus performs a number of revo- 
lutions. 

Mr. Wilson supposes, that these mo- 
tions arise from the flame which broods 
over a small portion of the oil, and is only 
separated from it by the thickness of the 
paper. The oil, in consequence of being 
violently heated, must increase in volume, 
and, on account of the decrease of its speci- 
fic gravity, must be pressed upwards by a 
force sufficient to raise part of it above the 
general level. 

But this portion of oil, in its endeavours 
to ascend, meets with a resistance from the 
weight of the incumbent lamp, which will 
determine it, in seeking a vent, to slide 
from under the lamp in a thin supqificiai 


Patience. 


201 


stream. The re-action of this stream of 
rarefied oil, thus issuing most rapidly and 
copiously from a particular side of the 
base of the lamp, must impel the lamp in 
a contrary direction, and occasion its gy- 
rations. 

Experimental Philosophy is replete with 
wonder, amusement, and instruction : it 
deserves to be more cultivated than it is, 
and will w. 11 repay the young for their pa- 
tient and active investigations. 


XLVIII. PATIENCE. 

Life is so chequered with good and evil, 
and the situations into which ' .e may be 
thrown are so perfectly unknown to us, 
that it is necessary we should possess 
ourselves of as many virtues as possible, 
to enable us to bear very change of scene, 
and every reverse of fortune. Patience is 
one of the most valuable qualities to which 
we can aspire. It can ot, indeed, remove 
calamity ; but by teaching us.to endure it, 
the load is lessened, and the triumph of 
enmity is defeated. 


202 


Patience, 


Now, why this preamble? Do you 
think I wish to make you little philoso- 
phers, or to darken the prospects of 
youthful hope ? No ! I mean only to iiit 
troduce an enigmatic description of Pa- 
tience, which, as you have not yet had 
much occasion to practise, and I pray you 
never may ! you are less likely to disco- 
ver without a clue. 

If you are pleased with the verses, I am 
gratified. 

While Fortune, with bewitching smiles. 

Her lavisii favours pours ; 

While friendship wins, and love beguiles, 

And pleasure gilds the hours : 

While blest Hygeia’s rosy hue 
Illumes the joyous face ; 

And every scene that meets the view, 

Is harmony and grace ; 

How little is my value priz’d ! 

My name is scarcely known, — 

My useless merit sinks, despis’d,— 

The happy me disown ! 

But should life’s storms collect and fall, 
Misfortune rear her crest. 

Sickness invade, and fears appal, 

And doubt distract the breast ; 


Ibrahim and Adalaide. 


205 


Then all my virtues will appear, 

And all my beauties shine ; 

And blest the heart that feels me near, 
And owns my aid divine. 

By me the martyr gains his crown, — 
The wretch escapes despair : 

I vanquish fate’s severest frown. 

Or teach the soul to bear. 


XLIX. IBRAHIM AND ADALAIDE. 

AN ORIENTAL TALE. 

No rank can be happy without the con- 
solations of love. If the heart is unblest, 
the man must be miserable. 

Ibrahim, Caliph of Damascus, was ju- 
venile and handsome. He was invested 
with authority ; and his power was appli- 
ed to communicate happiness, and to alle- 
viate distress. He w'as the idol of his peo- 
ple, and the admiration of surrounding na- 
tions.' But he had not as yet tasted of that 
felicity w^hich he conferred ; and the joy 
that brightened every eye at his approach, 
could not dissipate a settled gloom which 

G 6 


204 


Ibrahim and Adalaidt, 


pressed on the springs of life, and had ob- 
tained him the appellation of The Grave. 

With the anxious eye of dutiful regard, 
his attendants had long endeavoured to 
develope the mystery that gave a pensive 
aspect to the face of majesty ; but their re- 
searches had always terminated in uncer- 
tain conjectures and ineffectual reflections ; 
since future observations had constantly 
convinced them, that the judgment they 
had formed was fallacious. 

Hamed was the principal officer of the 
court ; and while his wisdom, his inte- 
grity, and his years, procured him univer- 
sal esteem, those valuable qualities by no 
means escaped the attention of Ibrahim 
the Grave, who cultivated his friendship 
with the most assiduous care, and sunk 
the monarch in the man and the compa- 
nion, whenever Hamed attended on his 
royal person. 

The youngest daughter of Hamed, the 
lovely Adalaide, as far transcended the 
roses of Damascus in the bloom of her 
complexion, and the diamonds of Golcon- 
da in the brilliancy of her eyes, as the saf- 
fron tinge of the morning exceeds the most | 
perfect imitation of art ; or the lucid bright- 


Ibrahim and Adalaide. 


205 


ness of the stars that glitter in the celes- 
tial canopy, the feeble glare of light that 
illLiinines the tomb of the Prophet. And 
as V irtiie and innocence had ever been her 
guides, and her father’s wisdom had been 
' transfused into her soul, with the addition- 
al charm that delicacy of taste throws over 
other female perfections, she was the uni- 
versal object of attraction, and concenter- 
ed the regards of the gay, the splendid, 
and the young, who fluttered round the 
throne of ijamascus. But her heart 
would own no partial affection : the rno- 
.ment that was to decide her destiny was 
not yet amved. 

Ibrahim and Adalaide, in their infant 
years, had been inseparable companions. 
The same sun had gilded their natal day ; 
the same lessons of sage advice had been 
dictated to each, and imbibed with mutii* 
al delight : and if Adalaide was celebrat- 
ed for every accomplishment which adorns 
the sex, Ibrahim was no less famous for 
every virtue that is worthy of a prince. 
At that early period, they had been re- 
marked for the fondness of their attach- 
e ment. 'Phe fairest flowers in the gardi'ns 
of the palace, were culled by his hands, 


206 Ibrahim and Adalaide, 

and formed into a chaplet lor her hair-; 
the most exquisite fruits that the benigni- 
ty of the climate, or the assiduity of art 
could produce, constantly bespread her lit- 
tle table; and a thousand minute circum- 
stances uniformly occurred to indicate the 
prince’s affection for his lovely compa- 
nion, before either ambition or art had tak- 
en possession of their minds, or the sim^ 
plicity of native innocence had learned re- 
serve from the knowledge of vice. 

The delicate restraints and prudent cir- 
cumspection which maturer years necessa- 
rily exact from the virtuous of the tender 
sex, the death of the Caliph Solyman, and 
Ibrahim’s assumption of the reins of 
government, had dissolved this intimacy 
which childhood only sanctioned, and 
^vhich the voice of the public might have 
censured, if prolonged under the empire 
of reason. Several years had tdapsed, in 
which they had scarcely seen each other ; 
yet fame had not been silent in recording 
their mutual virtues ; and the friendship 
grafted on early youth had blossomed in 
secret, and interwoven itself with tlieir 
maturer age. 


Ibrahim and Adalaide. 207 

The throne of Damascus was now esta- 
blished in the most perfect security, by 
the wisdom of the monarch, and the integ- 
rity of his servants. The streams of jus- 
tice flowed with untainted purity ; the 
voice of joy resounded in every street ; 
and the benedictions of a grateful people 
ascended the heavens, when they con- 
templated the felicity of their govern- 
ment. 

Ibrahim alone was deaf to the sounds of 
gladiiess ; neither the gems that sparkled 
in the diadem he wore, n.or the felicitations 
of a nation he had rendered happy, could 
brighten his features into joy, or clothe his 
lips with a smile 

The venerable Hamed began to be a - 
farmed for the sovereign he loved ; and 
was one day about to liint his apprehen- 
sions, when Ibrahim, beckoning to him 
with his hand, bade Ihm attend in the royal 
gardens. 

B nng seated under a pavilion, perfum- 
ed by the surrounding odoriferous blos- 
soms, and cooled by the dewy dash of a 
neighbouring cascade, Ibrahim command- 
ed his minister to listen, and to regard with 


£08 Ibrahim and Adelaide. 

the eye of a parent, a monarch, whom te 
had always treated as a son. 

“ Hamed,’’ proceeded he, ‘‘ I am sen- 
sible of your zeal for my ha* piness, of 
your anxiety to discover the cause of my 
too apparent dejection, and, of the alacrity 
you have displa} ed to disj^el it, by the sa- 
lutary counsels of age. I am convinced 
of your unshaken loyalty, and unbiassed 
integrity ; and can now without hesita- 
tion inform you, that my felicity has ever 
depended on an alliance with your nume- 
rous virtues. The impression v\hich the 
lovely Adalaide made on this heart, before 
it was susceptible of aught but innocence, 
is as indelible as the seal of Mahomet, or 
the gratitude of virtue. Look not amaz- 
ed added he, “ I have been prudei.t, 
till restraint is no longer mxessary. Under 
your auspices, I see my dominio ns 
flourish, and my subjects happy ; and 
having first consulted their interest, as be- 
comes a sovereign, shall I be censured for 
making my own happiness the secondary 
object ? The little disparity of rank, which 
pride only will register, and folly alone 
can reproach, sinks ir.to its original non- i 
entity, at the powerful voice ol love. My| 


Ibrahim and Adalaide, 209 

choice was unalterably fixed, before reason 
could foresee or ambition anticipate the 
inconvenience of rank ; and I trust your 
approbation will complete the felicity of 
my life, and the glory of my reign.” 

“ Beloved sovereign,” replied the asto- 
nished Hamed, “ you confound me with 
the honour i itended to be conferred on my 
family ; but neither the partiality of a 
father, nor the splendor of a th one, must 
influence my judgment, or draw me from 
my duty and approved allegiance — Vda- 
laide esteems you as her sovereign ; her 
father loves you as his son, and honours 
you as his king ; but neither of them can 
consent to taint the blood of royalty, or to 
sink you in the estimation of public o- 
pinion. The fairest princesses of the 
East court your alliance, whose rank will 
add dignity to your throne ; and shall the 
humble offspring of Hamed be preferred 
to the progeny of kings and heroes ! P.e- 
flect, my prince on your own quality ; 
regard the united wishes of your people, 
and chuse a consort worthy of the exalted 
line from which you are sprung.” 

Having said this, he arose ; and left the 
Caliph Ibrahim, absorbed in the contem- 


210 Ibrahim and Adalaide* 

plation of his own misery, and fixed in a 
settled look, expressive only of the suspen- 
sion of thought. At lengrh, starting from 
his trance, he exclaims — “ Am I then in- 
vested with the dignity of a king, and with 
power to confer bliss, which yet I am not 
worthy to taste ? It cannot be ! This heart 
moves not in unison with the pomp of 
majesty, and the sounds of ambition. Do- 
minion is no longer amiable in my eyes, 
than while I can at once confer and receive 
happiness. Royalty is incapable of ex- 
tinguishing the affections of the soul, the 
transports of love, and the stings of inquie- 
tude. And has eternal Providence only 
elevated my head, to render me more 
eminently miserable ? This surely is not 
compatible with its mercy or its justice ! 
But I will not arraign its inscrutable de- 
cisions : to be humbled is to be happy ; 
and this is still within my own potver !” 

With this, Ibrahim hastily arose ; and 
wandering without any determinate view, 
he inadvertently passed through a door, 
which Hamed had by accident left open, 
and which separated his gardens Ifoni 
those of the jxfface. As he advanced, 
without regarding any particular object. 


Ibrahim and Adalaide, 


211 


and pondering on the misery of grandeur, 
he was suddenly startled by a loud shriek 
from the lovely Adal aide, who was terri- 
fied at the Caliph’s unexpected approach, 
and the visible agitation of his mind. 
“ Dearest Adalaide,” exclaimed he, has- 
tening toward her, and receiving her in his 
arms, “ fear not the presence of the purest 
love, and be not alarmed at the voice of 
Ibrahim. Is the felicity of our infantine 
da}’s alre dy forgotten ; and shall reason 
disdain to own the sensations of delight, 
which innocence taught us mutually to 
feel ? If my remembrance be erased from 
your breast, Ibrahim has nothing to hope ; 
if he is still regarded by Adaiaide, there is 
nothing that can occasion him a fear. 
Your father, to whom I have just now un- 
bosomed myself, has urged me to repress 
the honest feelings of a genuine affection ; 
and will you too join to deprive that heart 
of its last consolation, which has only sup- 
ported the cares of state, and borne the 
trappings of ro\ alty, that it might the bet- 
ter entitle itself to your regard 

“ Sovereign,” replied the lovely daugh- 
ter of Hamed, trembling with fear, “ our 
childish attachments should, if possible, 
VOL, I. H 


212 Ibrahim and Adalaide. 

be forgotten ! My heart is averse to the 
gilded pageantry of state, and my humble 
birth precludes me from aspiring to royal 
regard* Though young, I have been ac- 
customed to think ; and though Ibrahim 
in a lower station would command the in- 
violable aifeotion of Adalaide, as a king 
he is too exalted to beloved. I have al- 
ways considered elevated rank as strewing 
the path of life with splendid misery ; and 
I am instructed to believe, that the vir- 
tues and the joys flourish most at a dis- 
tance from the breath of adulation, and 
the pageantry of a throne. Forgive the 
freedom of Adalaide ; and be as blest as 
your transcendent virtues merit, or your 
fondest hopes can wish !’’ 

“ Divine Adalaide,” replied the Caliph, 
the justness of your sentiments, and their 
congeniality with my own, only serve to 
inflame my love. "Fhe splendors of roy- 
alty have no charms for me, if they im- 
pede the current of bliss ; and any station 
with Adalaide is superior to the throne of 
Damascus, deprived of her smiles. I 
have for some time secretly resolved to re- 
sign the sceptre in favour of iny brother 
Aifaron, after having now sufliciently 


Ibrahim and Adalaide, 2 IS 

proved that the happiness of my subjects 
lay nearest my heart; and to retire to a 
private station, where love might illumine 
my future hours, and the charms of Ada*' 
laide furnish that bliss, which a crown can 
never bestow. You have confessed, an- 
gelic Adalaide ! that my rank is the sole 
obstacle to your affection —Behold, then, 
in Ibrahim, your equal and your lover; 
and believe me, the sacrifice of royalty to 
your regard will never prompt a single 
sigh !” 

“ Generous Caliph,” returned Adalaide 
— her full heart would not permit her to 
articulate another word ; and she fainted 
in the arms of Ibrahim. While the Ca- 
liph was exerting every e .pedientto res- 
tore her, Hamed precipitately entered the 
garden ; and with inexpressible astonish- 
ment and concern, beheld the situation of 
his daughter. Adalaide being recovered 
by their mutual endeavours, Ibrahim com- 
municated to Hamed the whole that had 
passed, not concealing his resolution to 
abdicate the throne ; and added, that it 
would be in vain to attempt by the elo- 
quence of wisdom, any alteration in his 
views, wliich were determined and inflexi- 


214 Ihrahim and Adalaide, 

ble. Hamed bowed with dutiful submis* 
sion to what he saw it was impossible to 
prevent : and in a few days, Ibrahim re* 
signed the badges of power, and his mi- 
nister Hi med, to his brother Alfaron ; that 
he might enjoy, uninterrupte d, the more 
tranquil empire of love. This secession 
was at first he^ird with consternation and 
dismay ; but reason and gratitude soon 
resuming their place in his people’s hearts, 
his nuptials were celebrated with the 
strongest demonstrations of ardent attach- 
ment, and not a tongue dared to withhold 
the fi’usions of praise. 

Ibrahim retired with his adored Ada* 
laide to a delightful retreat on the banks 
of the Uber, and long enjoyed that hap- 
piness which the sceptered monarch sel- 
dom feels ; and to the last hour of record- 
ed life, never heaved a sigh for the page- 
antry he had left behind. After spending 
many happy years, with a numerous and 
virtuous family, they both slept in peace ; 
and Aifaron being gathered to the dust of 
his lathers without issue, the eldest son of 
Ibrahim and Adakiide was called to the 
thr^me, who swayed the sceptre with a 
moderation, which, while it recalled th^ 


P^egetablesy 215 

memory of his father, endeared his own 
name to a grateful posterity. 


L. VEGETABLES AN ELABORATORY OF 
AIR. 

THE PUPIL AND HIS TUTOR. 

P. Pray, Sir, favour me with one of 
these beautiful roses. I love to smell 
them — they are so sweet. 

T. Roses are certainly very delightful 
to the smell ; but the sweetest flowers, 
you must know, are seldom the most use* 
ful. Hiid we no other vegetables except 
roses, the air would soon be unfit for res- 
piration, and animals would die. 

P. You surprise me. Sir. Will you have 
the goodness to give me some account of 
i the air, and what effect vegetables have on 

i ’ 

T, With all my heart ; but I must not 
enter into deep disquisitions on this sub- 
ject, or you will not be able to understand 
me. 

I shall premise, that atmospheric air, or 
H 2 


216 Vegetables^ ^c<, 

the common air we breathe, proves, on 
analysis, to be an intimate combination of 
the aerial fluids , which have obtained the 
names of — 1. Mephit c, corrupted or 
phlogistic air; 2. Vital, dephlogisticat- 
ed, or pure air ; and 3. Fixed air^. 

The first, singly, extinguishes flame, 
and would soon destroy life ; without the 
second, animals could not breathe, nor a 
candle burn ; the third amounts to no 
more than a sixteenth part of the other 
two, is specifically heavier ; and when se- 
parated from the mephitic and vital airs, 
not only e. tinguishes flame, but instantly 
destroys life. 

In the common process of respiration, 
and in the act of combustion, much vital 
air is necessarily consumed ; and as me- 
phitic or corrupted air is three times as 
much in quantity as both of the others, 
and that, as well as fixed air, improper for 
the purposes of life ; without a constant 
renovation of the vital or dephlogisticated 
air, neither animal life could be supported, 
nor fire kept alive. 

P, Very well, Sir, I shall remember the 

* Called also — L Azotic^ 2. FjVa/, and 3. Car-. 
horde Air. 


Vegetables^ ^Co 217 

three kinds of air ; and that the first and 
the last, either singly or conjointly, are 
improper for respiration. Will you now 
be pleased to inform me how the second 
is renewed, of which you say there is a 
constant consumption ? 

T. In this process, you must know, 
that plants are of the utmost utility. 
They absorb the corrupted air, and return 
pure or vital air ; and this most copious- 
ly in the day-time, and in the sunshine^ 
from this circumstance, the nocturnal air 
is generally less salubrious than the diur- 
nal. All vegetables, however, are not 
equally bountiful of vital air. Aquatics, 
and trees that love the streams, such as 
willows, are most productive. This is a 
wise provision of Providence — that in si- 
tuations where the air is naturally most vi- 
tiated, those plants, best qualified to cor- 
rect it, should chuse their residence. 

Sweet- smelling flowers, such as your 
favourite roses, always exhale a noxious 
air, which, however, is different from their 
perfume ; and were you to be shut up 
with a quantity of them in a dose room, 
or with other odorous flowers or fruits^ the 
air would soon become mortal, 


2.18 Vegetables^ ^c. 

But the ill effects of one plant are cor. 
rectcdby the beneficial influence of others ; 
and the corrupted air which animals ex- 
hale, is as favourable to vegetation, as the 
vital air which plants give out in the room 
of it, is to life. Hence we may perceive 
the wise economy of nature ; and from 
what human sagacity has been able to in*, 
vestigate, conclude that nothing was made 
in vain. 

P. But do all parts of vegetables sup- 
ply this vital or pure air ? 

No : the leaves have the principal 
share in this elaboration ; and next to 
them, the roots and the branches. But 
I have told you that sunshine and light are 
indispensable to extract this necessary flu- 
id. In the night-time, plants give out 
more poisonous than pure air ; but this is 
infinitely counterbalanced by the benefits 
they afford in the day. It is more than 
in the proportion of 1000 to 1. 

P. If the leaves have so much more vir- 
tue than the other parts of plants, how are 
we supplied with a sufficient quantity of 
vital air in winter, when they are mostly 
stripped of them ? 

T. This is a very pertinent question. 


219 


Vegetables^ 

The aututnnal months, v/hen the leaves 
are falling, and in a putrid state, and the ver- 
nal months before they fully expand, are 
generally the most unwholesome, provid- 
ed the weather is mild. During winter, 
however, animal respiration is less vitiated, 
on account of the cold, and consequently, 
a less supply of pure air suffices ; and 
plants, though they vary in the quantity of 
air they afford, never differ in the quality. 

In warm climates, the vegetables are 
ever-green, or animal existence would suf- 
fer to a greater degree, than is actually the 
case. In very cold climates, where plants 
are few, their use in consequence, is less 
required. 

Throughout all nature, and in every 
climate, the blessings diffused are appor- 
tioned to the wants to be supplied. How 
ought we, then, to adore that power, who^ 
with so much wisdom, has fitted every 
agent to its use ; and every creature t(i 
its enjoyments 1 


220 


]LI. CRtJELTY TO ANIMALS. 

A Youngster, uhose name we shall 
conceal, because it is not for his credit it 
should be known, was amusing himself 
with a beetle stuck on a pin, and seemed 
vastly delighted with the gyrations it made, 
cccasioned by the torture it felt. 

Harley saw this with emotion ; for he 
would not wantonly have injured the 
most contemptible animal that breathes— 
he rebuked the unfeeling youth in the 
following terms ; and the impression 
which the lecture made was never after 
effaced from his mind : 

“ I am deeply concerned,” said he, “ to 
observe any one whom I so tenderly love, 
fond of cruel sport. Do you think that 
the poor beetle which you are thus agoniz- 
ing, is incapable of sensati' n — and if you 
are awatre that it feels pain, as w^eil as you, 
how can you receive amusement from its 
torture ? Animals, it is true, were form- 
ed for the use of man ; but reason and hu- 
manity forbid us to abuse them. Every 
creature, not immediately noxious to our 
kind, ought to be cherished, or at least 


221 


Cruelty to Animals^ 

not injured. The heart of sensibility 
bleeds for misery wherever it is seen. No 
amusement can be rational, that is found- 
ed on another’s pain. 

I know you take delight in bird’s nest- 
ing ; I wish to discourage this pursuit 
too. Consider how little you gain, and 
how much distress you occasion to some 
of the most beautiful and lo v ely of crea- 
tion’s tribes. You destroy the eggs from 
which the fond bird hoped to rear an off- 
spring ; or, what is still more cruel, you 
Irob her of her young, when maternal care 
and affection are at the highest pitch. 
Could you possibly conc eive what the 
parent bird must suffer from this depriva- 
tion, you would be ashamed of your in- 
sensibility. The nightingale, robbed of 
her tender young, is said to sing most 
sweetly ; but it is the plaintive voice of 
lacerated nature, not the note of joy. It 
should be heard as the expression of dis- 
tress ; and if you are the cause of it, you 
ought to apply it to yourself. 

« O then, ye friends of love, and love-taught 
song, 

Spare the soft tribes ! this barbarous art for- 
bear ! 

If on your bosom innocence can win, 

Music engage, or piety persuade/’ 


222 Cruelty to Animals^ 

Even the meanest insects receive an 
istence from the author of Being, and why 
should you abridge their span ? i hey 
have their little sphere of bliss allotted 
tliem ; they have purposes which they are 
destined to fulfil : and when those ai'c ac- 
complished they die. Thus it is with 
you ! You have, indeed, a more extensive 
range of action, more various and impor- 
tant duties to discharge, and well will it be 
for you, if you discharge them aright. 
But think not because you have reason 
and superiority given you, that irrational 
animals are beneath yovr regard. In pro- 
portion as you enjoy the benefits they are 
adapted to confer, you should be careful 
to treat them with tenderness and humani- 
ty: it is the only return you can make. 
Bemember every thing that has life is 
doomed to suffer and to feel ; though its 
expression of pain may not be capable of 
being conveyed to your years. 

To the most worthless reptile, to the 
most noxious animal, some pity is due. 
If its life is dangerous to you, it may be 
destroyed without blame ; but let it be 
done without cruelty. To torture is un- 
manly — to tyrannize where there can be, 


223 


Thoughts on Education, 

no resistance is the extreme of baseness. 

I never knew an amiable person, who 
did not feel an attachment for animals. A 
boy who is not fond of his bird, his rabbit, 
his dog, or his horse, or whatever other 
creature he takes under his protection, will 
never have a good heart, and will always 
be wanting in affection to his own kind. 
But he, who after admonition, delights in 
misery, or sports with life, must have a 
disposition and a heart I should blush to 
own : he is neither qualified to be happy 
himself, nor will ever make otliers so. 


I.II. DESULTORY THOUGHTS ON 
EDUCATION. 


On the subject of Education, we are 
all right in theor}^ though too often wrong 
in practice. It is universally allowed to 
be of the last importance, as well to our 
temporal as our eternal interests ; yet 
such is the absurd infatuation of mankind 
in general, that though their judgments 
cannot deceive them, their conduct is 
H 3 


224 Thoughts on Education, 

frequently diametrically opposite. And 
they who weary Heaven with prayers for 
the welfare of their offspring, seldom use 
the natural and proper means, to obtain the 
completion of their vows. 

I have lived long etiough to see children 
become fathers ; and I have constantly 
had occasion to lament the shamdul inat- 
tention of parents, to the permanent 
interests of their posterity. A smattering 
of languages, a graceful bow, and a pleas- 
ing address, are deemed ■ sufficient quali- 
fications in youth : and when a boy has 
attained to these, he is held to have com- 
pleted his most essential school-acquire- 
ments : his genius is then thought too 
brilliant too brook restraint ; and he is 
turned loose into the world, unprincipled 
in morals, ignorant of religion, and a 
stranger to his duty, both as a man and a 
citizen. 

With respect to the other sex, having 
acquii'edthe art of dressing, a little music, 
dancingy needle- work, some bad French, 
and the science of making themselves ridi» 
culous by the facility with which they 
scribble, they are reckoned quite accom- 
plished, and are immediately exhibited on 


Thoughts on Education. 225 

the public stage of life ; where, as their 
minds are void of all useful knowledge, 
and their ears open to the grossest adula- 
tion, the first unprincipled flatterer that 
assails them with dexterity, finds the over- 
throw of such defenceless honour no dif 
■flcult task. 

“ Bred only, and completed to the taste 

Of lustful appetence,’* 

they rather invite than awe the dissolutCc 
That this picture of the youth of both 
sexes, is not overcharged, few will have 
tlie temerity to deny ; and yet no one 
chases to censure or reform his own con- 
duct. A weak partiality frequently carries 
the parental heart beyond the bounds of 
rational circumspection. The future hap- 
piness of his offspring is often sacrificed to 
the foolish gratification of the present 
hour ; and the errors of childhood, un- 
checked in their birth, are suffered to be- 
come habits of the soul. The resolution 
indeed, of correcting, what even the blind- 
ness of partiality cannot overlook, may be 
sincere ; but it is deferred till some re- 
moter period, from, an idea equally false 


226 Thoughts on Education, 

and fatal, that the propensities of infancy 
may be easily turned into a proper channel, 
when reason becomes strong enough to 
feel the force, and see the propriety of ad- 
monition. But let it be remembered, that 
errors early sown, “grow with our growth, 
and strengthen with our strength and 
that it is as difficult to divert the early bias 
of the mind, as to direct the headlong river 
an ascending course. 

Let those, therefore, who are intrusted 
Muth the precarious blessing of children, 
learn to reflect on the importance of their 
charge, and how much it will depend on 
their own exertions, whether they shall 
prove a comfort or a curse. Let them 
consider every slight deviation from recti- 
tude, and every relaxation of the ties of 
propriet}^, prudence, and honour, if not 
early restrained as laying the foundation of 
future misery to themselves and their pos- 
terity. 

Habits are easily contracted, but hard 
to be eradicated ; and principles early im- 
bibed are much more likely to be per- 
manent than those which are late taken 
up, though under the boasted empire of 
reason. The human mind is capable of 
receiving any impression ; and the first seU 


Thoughts on Education, 227 

dom fails to be perceptible through life, 
whateva' succeeding ones, passion or 
reflection may endeavour to superinduce. 

Let every parent lay his hand on his 
heart, and seriously put these questions to 
himself— “ Have I instructed my family, 
by precept and example, to the best of my 
power ? Have I carefully instilled into 
their minds, the principles of divine reve- 
lation ? Have I enforced the necessity 
of moral rectitude ? Have I represented 
virtue in all its native lustre : and have I 
warned from the contact of vice, by a dis- 
play of its fatal tendency V* 

He, and he only, who can with a safe 
conscience affirmatively answer these in- 
terrogations, may be fairly pronounced an 
affectionate and a dutiful father. 

But, alas ! such knowledge is seldom 
considered as a branch of human learning: 
for such notions are become antiquated, or 
thought unnecessary. Superficial ac- 
quirements usurp the place of essential 
endowments. Youth is furnished with 
words, independent of ideas ; a few me- 
chanical accomplishments of the body are 
esteemed more important than the melio- 


223 Thoughts on Education. 

ration of the heart ; and the soul is left to 
form itself If it contracts habits, they 
are those of chance ; and neither parents 
nor preceptors think themselves bound to 
attend to such unfashionable duties. A- 
way with such gross misconceptions! 
They are fatal to the best interests of hu- 
manity, inimical to the cause of virtue, 
and the empire of happiness ; and to them 
may be justly ascribed a large aggregate 
of the woes, follies, and misfortunes of 
mankind. 

The useful should never be sacrificed 
to the ornamental, nor the real to the spe- 
cious. The qualities of the mind are of 
infinitely greater consequence than those 
of the body ; and henceforth, let no one 
be regarded as an affectionate parent, or a 
faithful tutor, who forgets that religion^ 
virtue, and benevolence, are in reality the 
most decorous, as well as the most bene- 
ficuil branches of human acquirement. 


229 


LIi;. CIVILITY AND POLITENESS. 

Two boys had been paying a visit, in 
the family of a friend of their father. 
When they returned home, the one was 
charmed with every thing he had met with 
during his absence ; the other expressed 
himself happy at getting away from such 
society. 

‘‘ How is this, my children said the 
[ father. “ I have no doubt you were both 
I treated with equal attention, and impartial 
I regard. One seems happy in the recep, 

! tion he experienced ; the other rejoices 
that his visit is at an end.” 

A pause ensued — no answer was return- 
I ed. — “ I see,” continued he, addressing 
; himself to the eldest, ‘‘ how it is. Harry 
is pleased, because he studied to be pleas; ^ 
ing ; while you, I fear, have been neglj. 
gent in your manners, and inattentive to 
the little arts that conciliate love ; and 
therefore you have not met with that satis- 
faction, which to be sincere, must ever be 
mutual and reciprocal. 

A complaisant behaviour, and a con- 


230 Civility and Politeness* 

stant desire of obliging, attracts the regard, 
and rivets the affections of mankind, be- 
yond all the talents and advantages that 
can be put in competition with them. 
Without those amiable qualities, learning 
becomes pedantry, beauty is disgusting, 
and superiority savours of pride. 

“ lam very far, however, from recom- 
mending an attention of superficial qualifi- 
cations alone : I wish you to possess ele- 
gance of mind as well as of manners, and 
real worth with acquired graces. Believe 
me, their union will be irresistible ; where- 
as, without merit of a higher rank, inti - 
mate acquaintance will soon dissolve the 
charms of manners however specious, oi 
externals however captivating. 

‘‘ The unseemly shell sometimes con- 
tains a pearl ; the rough coat of the piix^. 
conceals a delicious fruit ; and the bright 
est virtues are not unfreqiiently veiled uii 
der an unpromising outside, and an awk- 
ward address. In this case, it requires 
some penetration to discover the latent 
worth ; and few will be at the trouble to 
put a due estimate on those qualities 
which a person is himself negligent in set- 
ting off to advantage. Hence die value of 


Civility and Politeness. 23 1 

polished manners becomes apparent : they 
give a new lustre to great abilities or good 
qualities ; and though they cannot supply 
tlieir place when wanting, they will often 
conceal the deficiency from vulgar eyes. 
Besides, civility is one of the chief arts of 
strewing the rugged path of life with 
flowers. The attentions it pays are re- 
turned with interest ; and life is sweeten- 
ed by its smiles. 

“ In every situation into whicli you 
may be thrown, where neither religion 
nor morals forbid, study rather to please 
others, than to gratify yourself. Thus 
others will endeavour to make themselves 
acceptable to you ; a soft charm will be 
diffused over your social intercourse ; and 
you will return from every fresh scene, 
every new adventure, with the impressions 
of Harry ^ satisfied yourself, because you 
have been solicitous to give satisfaction to 
others.’’ 


LIV. BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIRS Of 

DR. RICHARD BUSBY, MASTER OF 
WESTMINSTER SCHOOL. 

It has been said by a wise and elegant 
ancient writer, “ that to instruct youth 
well, is to perform the most essential ser* 
vice to the state.” The truth of this 
maxim has never been disputed, though, 
like many other truths, it is little regardt'd* 
The learned and faithful guides of our 
early days are entitled to no small degree 
of consideration in a public view, nor will 
any one pretend to say, that they are un- 
deserving of an adequate public reward ; 
but if the former is paid them by a dis- 
cerning few, the latter, alas ! has seldom 
fallen to their lot. There are thousands 
of melancholy instances, where a person, 
after devoting those years which are most 
valuable in the life of man to the education 
of the rising generation, has been over- 
looked in the distribution of favours and 
preferment ; while the pert, the idle, the 
ignorant, and the intriguing, have reaped 
those emoluments, without merit, and al- 
most without effort, which ought to have 


253 


Memoirs oJ\ bV. 

been exclusively bestowed on genius, dili- 
gence, and worth. 

In a miscellany intended for the instruc- 
tion and amusement of youth, it cannot 
be improper to give the leading traits in 
the life of a man who was a pattern of 
faithful assiduity in the discharge of his 
duty as a master ; and it may serve to 
stimulate laudable exertion in this very 
useful and honourable line of employment, 
to reflect that he was at once respected, 
and remunerated for his toils. May such 
success be more frequent ; and the re- 
flections on neglect, which truth at present 
\^'arrants, be considered by posterity as 
either obsolete or unjust ! 

Richard Busby was descended from a 
genteel family, and first saw the light on 
the 22d of September, 1606. His birth- 
place was Lutton, in Lincolnshire ; but 
it appears that his family was generally re- 
sident in Westminster. What indications 
he gave of genius or industry in his boyish 
days, are now unknown. He was entered 
a king’s scholar of Westminster school at 
the usual age, and passed through the se- 
veral classes with applause. There can- 
not be a doubt entertained but he was a 


234 Memoirs of 

most excellent classical scholar ; -and on 
this, every other branch of education has 
generally been known to hinge. We will 
not indeed pretend to say, but that genius 
and industry may sometimes outstrip the 
regular forms of institution, and overcome 
original neglect ; but this is rather to be 
hoped for than expected. To be well 
grounded in school learning, is the safest 
and readiest road to eminence and distinc- 
tion in every science, and in every sphere 
of action. 

From Westminster he^vas removed to 
Christ-church, Oxford, where he soon 
made himself conspicuous by his powers 
of elocution; and gained no small ap- 
plause for his abilities as an actor, in a play 
performed by the students of tliat society 
before the royal family in 1636. Having 
taken his degree of master in arts, after 
some inferior pieces of preferment, he was 
admitted to the prebend and rectory of 
Cudvvorth, in the church of Wells, in 
1639. During the civil tvars, he lost the 
emoluments annexed to this appointment ; 
but continued to retain his studentship at 
Oxford, and other preferments. 

On December 13th, 1640, he w^as 


Dr. Richard Busby, 235 

chosen master of Westminster school ; 
and never was more judgment displayed 
in the appointment. By the most labo- 
rious diligence, the most consummate 
skill, and unwearied perseverance, he 
proved how worthy he was of this impor- 
tant office. In the long period of fifty -five 
years, during which he presided over this 
excellent seminary, he reared such a number 
of eminent men of two generations, as no 
person besides had ever tlie honour of en- 
umerating among his pupils. 

But before we characterize him as an in-i 
structor of youth, let us trace his prefer- 
ments, which were the legitimate fruits of 
his meritorious labours. At the corona- 
nation of Charles II. he had the honour of 
carrying the ampulla, or vessel containing 
the consecrated oil, and that prince confer- 
red on him a prebend of Westminster ; 
and veiy soon after he was appointed 
treasurer and canon residentiary of Wells. 
These were the highest dignities he ever 
possessed : and indeed the direction of 
his talents, and the honourable competence 
they seemed, rendered more unnecessary, 
as far as comfort and independence w ere 
concerned. His ambition was dhected in 
H 5 


236 Memoirs of 

another channel — to be tlie first school- 
master ill England; and to see the youths 
he had bred, filling the most important 
stations in church and state with credit to 
themselves, which of consequence, reflect- 
ed lustre on himself. 

After attaining to great longevity, free 
from the infirmities of advanced age, and 
blessed with uninterriq^ted health, which 
may partly be ascribed to uniform tempe- 
rance, and partly to strength of constitu- 
tion, he departed this life, April 6th, 1695, 
in his eighty-ninth year, and was buried in 
Westminster abbey; where an elegant 
monument is erected to his memory, with 
an appropriate Latin inscription. 

As the conductor of a classical semina- 
ry, no person ever gained higher or more 
deserved reputation than Busby. He 
seemed born for this arduous profession, 
and to place his sole pleasure in his duty. 
Vigilant and sagacious, he was remarka- 
bly quick in discovering the latent spark 
of genius, and the bent of his pupil’s 
minds ; and no less industrious in direct- 
ing them, to the best and most advanta- 
geous ends. He was a father to the 
deserving; and extending his concern 


Dr, Richard Busby, 237 

beyond the partial attachment created 
at school, he not only trained up youth 
for important stations ; but with affec- 
tionate zeal recommended them to the 
attention of the world, that their talents 
might not be lost. Those who had 
been under his tuition, came forth at 
once accomplished scholars and eloquent 
speakers. He instilled into their tender 
minds the best principles, and sent them 
abroad as champions of church and state. 
The reputation into which he raised the 
seminary over which he so long presided, 
has not yet spent its force ; and we trust 
the effects of it will be perpetual. He 
first waked an emulation to excel : his 
successors have constantly been obliged 
to keep in their eye this great archetype ; 
and the scholars can scarcely forget what 
eminent men have issued from this esta- 
blishment, whose steps it is their glory 
to follow. 

Impartiality, ho\vever, obliges us, to ad- 
mit, that Busby was not wholly free from 
defects in his magisterial capacity. 
Though sufficiently kind to the ingenious 
and deserving, he was inffexibly severe, 
not only to voluntary lapses or foibles, but 


238 Memoirs of 

to real ignorance and want of capacity. 

It is said he never had but one boy under 
his care, who escaped a flagellation from 
his hands. If this be a fact, it shows 
how much better effects the former rigid 
discipline produced, than the present in- 
discriminate lenity. Yet surely modera- 
tion ought to be used ; and we will ven- 
ture to assert, that more have been con- 
firmed blockheads or vicious characters, 
by the too liberal application of the rod, 
than ever were improved, or reclaimed by 
it. We are wholly the creatures of ha- 
bit ; and he who when a child has been 
accustomed to flogging for every trifling 
omission or offence, will, in time, learn to 
disregard it; and, what is still worse, 
will lose that honourable sense of shame, 
which is the best preservative of virtue. 

So remarkably tenacious was Busby, 
however, of his pedagogical authority, that 
the following laughable anecdote has been | 
preserved, of the extreme to which he car- ' 
ried it. Charles the II. who respected 
him, having looked into the school during 
the hours of business, found the master 
engaged in his vocation with his hat on, as 
was usual in those days. With all the 


Dr, Richard Bushy, 239 

btilFness of a primitive quaker, he kept the 
covering on his head, during his majes- 
ty’s stay ; and after attending him to the 
door, apologized for the apparent want of 
respect, by observing, “ that if his scho- 
lars thought there was a greater man in 
the world than himself, they would not 
obey him.” 

Having considered him as a master, wc 
now advert to his character as a man. 
During his long and useful life, he ac- 
cumulated great riches, and he spent them 
in the most laudable manner. He devot- 
ed a considerable part to the encourage- 
ment of genius and piety, to the relief of 
the poor, and to the repair of churches. 
He was charitable and benevolent in his 
lifetime, and his posthumous benefactions 
show how eager he was to serve the less 
fortunate of the clerical profession, to the 
end of time. He vested a considerable 
estate in Buckinghamshire in the hands of 
trustees, for annual allowances to such 
clergymen as should not ' have an income 
of fifty pounds per annum, for reading a 
certain number of lectures on the church 
catechism in their respective cures ; and 
in order to make this charity more exteU’ 

H 6 


240 


Frugality. 

sively beneficial, he ordered the appoint- 
ment to be annual. Such were the life 
and character of Dr. Richard Busby ; a 
man who will be remembered as long as 
learning has a patron, or education a pro- 
fessor. 


LV. FRUGALITY. 

THE CHARACTER OF SIMPLEX. 

Simplex, wlien he was first sent to 
school had no more than than two- pence 
a week allowed him by his parents, while 
many of the same age had six-pence, and 
some even more. His parents were not 
affluent ; but they were indulgent — and 
had they thought it for his good, they 
would have abridged themselves of some 
pleasures, to add to his. Their opinion 
was, that gratifying unnecessary desires 
only increases their importunity ; and that 
he who does not learn to early husband a 
little, will never be a good manager with a 
great deal. They anxiously endeavour- 
ed to impress on Ins mind, that the fewer 


Frugality 241 

personal wants he had, and the more in-, 
dependent he was of circumstances, the 
happier and richer he would be ; and that 
it is more meritorious to be satisfied with 
moderate indulgences, than to wish to en- 
joy, and to be able to command many. 

At first Simplex felt himself somewhat 
mortified, when his school-fellows could 
purchase more expensive playthings, and 
riot on more luscious tarts and fruits than 
his finances would allow ; but he soon 
overcame this false shame, and was fre- 
quently able to lend an halfpenny out of 
■ his slender stock, and sometimes to give 
one in charity, when his richer associates, 
frorn their extravagance, could do nei- 
ther. 

His wants thus bounded, and his cha- 
racter thus formed, quickly gave him 
ideas of comfort and self-congratulation, 
which others were deprived of ; and 
when it was found, that his allowance 
I could be increased with safety, it was 
I gradually done, till it amounted to a 
I shilling a week. 

j In the first year, after he had been 
indulged with this capital sum, as he 
I then thought it, he surprised his parents 


242 Frugality. 

by displaying a silver watch, on his return 
at one of the vacations. He explained, 
however, his expenditures to their satis- 
faction ; and produced a minute account, 
as a voucher of his prudence and eco- 
nomy. The page in which the sums to- 
tal were cast up, I have faithfully copied, 
as an incitement and an example to others. 
In my estimation it is more valuable than 
many long treatises on management and 
frugality : it illustrates an useful art ; and 
displays some traits of character, which 
older people may be proud to imitate. 


Frugality. 


243 


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244 . 


XVI. MEMOIRSOF A CORNISH CURATE. 

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY 
HIMSELF. 

To poiirtray one’s own life with impar- 
tiality, and to lay open with candour the 
movements of the heart ; to dare to con- 
fess its foibles, and by the test of justice 
to try its merits, is, perhaps, as difficult a 
task as can well be conceived : but, ac- 
tuated by a regard for the happiness of 
those who have not yet determined on 
their future course of life, and hoping that 
my story may serve either to direct or to 
deter, I venture to lay it before the pub- 
lic. 

I was born in a distant county, and in 
a remote corner of the kingdom. My 
parents were above indigence, and their 
honour above imputation. A family 
pride, which had been handed down 
through a succession of generations, pre- 
vented them from stooping to what they 
W^eakly termed the drudgery of trade; 
while their hereditary estate, being insuffi- 
dent to secure a genteel independence, 


245 


Memoirs of^ ^c, 

even for themselves, was of course too 
limited, to enable them to provide for the 
contingency of a numerous offspring. 

I was the third son, and of course had 
but little to expect. My father early in- 
tended me for the church; and I was 
placed at the usual age, under an ap- 
proved master, at a celebrated gram^ 
mar- school. My diligence, let me say 
it, since I can without vanity make the 
assertion, soon procured me the good- 
will of my master ; while the meekness 
of my disposition conciliated the favour 
of my school- fellows, of whom I was 
in a few years considered as the head; 
and on every public occasion selected 
by my master, to do honour to his as- 
siduity as a teacher, by the display of 
my scholastic acquisitions. In seven 
years, I finished my career of classical 
education ; and left the good old gen- 
tleman with tears of filial affection, who 
heightened my feelings, by the sympathe- 
tical regard which was conspicuous in 
his own looks. 

And here I cannot forbear fondly in- 
dulging my fancy, with a retrospective 
view of those happy days, those years 


246 Memoirs of a 

of unmingled felicity, — before care has 
planted her sting in the human breast, 
or thought launched out into scenes of 
future action, where misery so often 
dashes the cup of life with her bitter 
draughts. 

There are, I believe, but few persons, 
however happy they may have been in 
tlieir progress through life, who have 
not made the same reflection, and recur- 
red with pleasure to those cloudless hours, 
when the task, or the dread of correction, 
were the worst ills that could befall them ; 
when the joys of the heart were pure and 
unalloyed, the tear soon forgot, and the 
mind unagitated and clear. If the fortu- 
nate have made these reflections, well may 
I, who have journeyed on in one dreary 
road, since I first entered the path of life ; 
and scarcely have known those intervals of 
bliss, which the wandering mendicant 
himself is not forbidden to taste. 

From the grammar-school, I was re- 
moved to the University of Oxford, and 
entered on the foundation of Exeter Col- 
lege. The same diligent application 
which had marked my former, studies, 
soon rendered me conspicuous in the Uni- 


Cornish Curate, 


247 


versity ; and I was complimented on every 
occasion, as a youth of no common ge- 
nius and acquii'ements. My heart began 
to be elated with the applauses, which 
were so lavishly bestowed on me. I was 
animated to yet farther exertions of ap- 
plication ; and, in four years, took my 
bachelor’s degree, with an eclat which 
has seldom distinguished a less diligent 
scholar. I vv^as now become the object of 
universal admiration in the university ; 
my future greatness was prognosticated 
in the most flattering terms, as one who 
I would be an honour to literature, and a 
' luminary in the church; but those com- 
pliments, however soothing to the youth- 
ful bosom, only operated to distress me. 
The less assiduous could not endure me 
to bear away the palm of genius, on every 
j public occasion ; and the proud, the ho- 
ij noured, and the great, began to affect a 
i| supercilious contempt in my presence, 

I which I am confident was neither sanc- 
tioned by their situations, nor deserved 
by niy general deportment. 

The charms of science, and the max- 
ims of philosophy, could neither inspire 
me with fortitude, nor lull my sensibility. 

VOL. I. I 


248 


Memoirs of a 


Too partial, perhaps, to my ovirn merit, I 
was impatient of the slightest appearance 
of disrespect ; and my feelings were, about 
this time, put to a most severe trial, by 
the death of my father, after so short an 
illness, that I was prevented from receiv- 
ing his last benediction. This calamity 
more deeply affected me than all my sub- 
sequei t misfortunes : it was the first 1 ever 
suffered, and the keen edge of delicate 
sensibility had not yet been blunted, by a 
frequent repetition of misery. I resigned 
myself into the arms of melancholy ; arid 
secluding myself from the impertinent or 
affected condolers of my loss, indulged 
that exquisite degree of sorrow, which 
shuns the obtrusion of the world. 

By my father’s will I found myself in- 
titled to five hundred pounds, which was 
all I had to combat the world with, and to 
establish myself in life ; but, had I been 
rendered by my patrimony, what the self- 
ish call perfectly easy, my grief would not 
have been less sincere, nor my feelings 
less acute. 

As my finances would no longer decent- 
ly support me at college, and my affliction 
for the loss of a beloved parent, stifled e- 


Cornish Curate. 


249 


very throb of ambition, and forbade me to 
, launch into a more active course of life, I 
i embraced the first opportunity of an or- 
! dination ; at once to seclude myself from 
I secular emplo} ments, and to gratify my 
’ sedentary and studious disposition. 

' To engage in the most sacred of all of- 
I fices, without a more laudable view, may 
I perhaps be excused in the eyes of an un- 
thinking world ; but must certainly render 
a man highly culpable in the sight of 
I Heaven ; and though 1 am not conscious 
1 of ever disgracing my profession, except 
I my poverty and misfortunes should be 
I imputed as crimes, I have often reflected 
with shame, that I was not influenced by 
higher motives. 

Having assumed the sacred habit, I set 
out for my native place, with a pain and 
reluctance I had never before experienced. 
I reflected, that I was now, not only bid- 
ding adieu for ever to the seats of the muses, 
and leaving behind me some valuable 
acquaintance s, to whom I was attached by 
a similarity of taste ; but had likewise the 
melancholy consideration to support, that 
I had no longer a father to receive me in 
his longing arms, nor a faithful friend to 


250 Memoirs of a 

guard me from the deceptions of the 
world. At the sight of my native man- 
sion, the tears gushed involuntarily from 
my eyes. 1 was overcome with contend- 
ing passions ; and could scarcely support 
myself into the room where my relations 
were ready to receive me, before I fell 
lifeless on the floor, and enjoyed a tem- 
porary suspension of thought, and a con- 
sequent relaxation from anguish. 

On recovering, I found the whole fa- 
mily anxiously attentive to my welfare ; 
and my mother, from her apprehensions 
for me, was in a state little better than 
that from which I was restored. She, 
however, soon regained strength to bless 
God that I was safe, and that slie had liv- 
ed to see me in Holy Orders. 

Regardless of securing any little advan- 
tage that might have accrued to me, from 
my acceptance of a curacy, I continued 
some time with my mother and elder bro- 
ther, prosecuting my theological studies 
with much application, and only allowing 
proper intervals for exercise, or company. 
Time, the grand restorer, assisted by 
those doctrines of Christianity which arc 
peculiarly comforting to the afflicted. 


Cornish Curate, 


253 


brought me by degrees to a necessary 
composure of mind I gradually regain- 
ed my wonted serenity ; and was ardent- 
ly looking forward to my future destina- 
tion, when a fresh accident plunged me 
into the depths of misery, and not only 
taught me to despair of finding friendship 
in a heart where the maxims of virtue 
are not inherent ; but convinced me that 
the ties of blood may be burst asunder at 
tlie instigations of unruly passion, and a 
brother with less reluctance sacrificed, 
than a sensual appetite abandoned. 

To alleviate the grief occasioned by a 
beloved partner’s loss, my mother had 
requested the company of a young lady 
named Olivia, the daughter of a neigh- 
bouring clergyman. She had often visit- 
ed in our family ; and, being nearly of 
my own age, was my constant compa- 
nion in every childish pursuit : but, as the 
impression on the breast of infancy is evan- 
escent as the morning dew, or the bloom 
of the rose, her remembrance had been 
almost effaced from my mind ; and dur- 
ing the time which we had recently spent 
together, 1 had not felt a single emotion 
in her favour, nor treated her with more 


252 


Memoirs of a 

attention, than the fair, the lovely, and the 
young, have always a right to expect 
fi'om the manly and the cultivated mind. 

It being now the vernal season, I hap- 
pened. one fine serene evening, to rove, 
with a book in my hand, to a considera- 
ble distance from home ; till finding the 
shades of night suddenly surrounding me, 
I hastened to return. My nearest way 
was through tangled woods, and unfre- 
quented paths, and to this 1 gave the pre- 
ference : but before I had proceeded far, 
a female voice resounded from a neigh - 
bouring copse. Shrieks, entreaties, and 
prayers, which became more languid as 
I approached, seemed to be poured out 
in vain ; and the voice died aw ay in broken 
murmurs. With all the expedition that 
humanity could inspire, I flew towards the 
place ; but judge my surprise and sensa- 
tions, w hen I beheld Olivia, struggling in 
my brother’s arms, and seemingly over- 
come by her exertions ! At the sight of 
such an unwelcome intruder, my brother 
seemed confounded with shame : he in- 
stantly forsook his lovely prize ; and, 
with eyes darting indignation, quitted the 
spot, without uttering a single word- 


Cornish Curate. 


255 


i Wounded to the soul at his baseness, 
and melted by the piteous situation of the 
lovely object, who lay stretched on the 
earth in a state of insensibility, I was 
scarcely master of myself. However, I 
soon summoned a sufficient degree of rea- 
son to attempt her revival ; and I had the 
happiness to find, that my exertions were 
not in vain. As she opened her fine blue 
eyes, and looked me full in the face, I 
; felt an emotion which I had never before 
' experienced. She started back at the 
I sight of such an unexpected deliverer ; 

I and, notwithstanding my utmost endea- 
yours, relapsed into the same melancholy 
state. At length, I again found means to 
restore her ; when, bursting into a flood 
©f tears — Eugenius,” says she, “ may 
every blessing attend your life ! May 
Heaven shower its choicest favours on 
your head ! and may some lovely and 
fortunate fair reward your virtue, for pre- 
serving mine !” — “ My dearest Olivia,’* 
exclaimed I, with all the enthusiasm of 
love, “ the hand of Heaven seems con- 
spicuous in this deliverance; and if I may 
presume to express the wish that lies near- 
est my heart — may the same power make 


254 Memoirs of a 

me the everlasting guardian of that virtue, 
which I have so providentially been ena- 
bled to save !” — “ My deliverer,” sweet- 
ly returned the ingenuous fair, is entit- 
led to every acknowledgment I can 
make ; conduct me to my father, and 
lodge under his sheltering roof, the child 
who is at his disposal.” With this requi- 
sition I immediately complied ; and as 
we agreed that it would be prudent to 
conceal the rude assault of my brother, 
which the malevolent world might have 
represented as more serious than it really 
was, we resolved to ascribe the lateness 
of our arrii-al to the fineness of the even- 
ing, and the charms of the season, which 
had tempted us to linger beyond our in- 
tended time. 

The apology was easily admitted ; and, 
as I was invited to stay, I eagerly em- 
braced the offer, as well to pass more 
time in the company of Olivia, as to re- 
cover sufficiently from my perturbation of 
spirits, before I met a guilty brother’s 
eye. 

Next morning I took leave of Olivia 
and her father, and during my walk, felt 
a dejection of mind, and a heaviness of 


Cornish Curate^ 


255 


heart, which could not have been exceed- 
ed, had I been the perpetrator of villany, 
instead of the protector of innocence. — 
The mind seems often prophetic of its 
own fate, and intuitively to foresee the 
storm that futurity is about to disclose. 
I approached my brother with looks of 
pity rather than indignation ; but before 
I could utter a single word, unlocking 
his bureau — ‘‘ Receive,” says he, your 
patrimony, and immediately quit the 
house. I disclaim for a brother, the 
Tvretch who can frustrate my wishes, mere- 
ly to gratify his own, under the still more 
detestable mask of sentimental hypocri- 
sy!” Stung to the soul, I replied, “The 
Power who sees the rectitude of my 
views, and by my means has defeated the 
villainy of your’s, will abundantly pro- 
vide for me ! I renounce an alliance with 
your ignominy, with the same pleasure as 
you disclaim me for a brother ; but let 
me caution you to beware, lest your pas- 
sions precipitate you into irretrievable 
ruin !” With these words, I rushed into 
my mother’s apartment ; and, falling on 
my knees, besought her benediction, be- 
fore the opportunity was for ever closed. 


J56 Memoirs of a 

Too well acquainted with w hat had pass- 
ed, she batlied my face with her tears ; 
and bewailing her hapless situation, encou- 
raged me to hope for a speedy reconcili- 
ation, bidding me rely on her unalterable 
love 

Alas ! she lived but a very short time 
to realize her wishes ; for within three 
weeks, she fell a martyr to her grief, oc- 
casioned by the brutal insolence of my 
brother, in consequence of her avowed 
partiality for me. 

An outcast from my family, and equals 
ly di squalified by the delicacy of my feel- 
ings, and the narrowness of my circum- 
stances, from elbowing my way in the 
world, I scarcely knew which way to di- 
rect my steps. Love, however, which 
can illumine the darkest hours of life, 
prompted my return to Olivia, that I 
might tell her how much my misfortunes 
attached her to my heart. 1 revealed to 
the dear charmer my real situation, and 
concluded by asking her advice, respect- 
ing my future conduct. She immediate- 
ly referred me to her father’s superior ex- 
perience; and I accordingly communi- 
cated to him, my fixed resolution of en- 


Cornish Curate. 


257 


gaging in a cure, without assigning the 
most distant reason for quitting by bro~ 
ther’s house. In consequence of this 
communication I had in a few days the 
happiness to be informed, that an old gen- 
tleman, the rector of R , a village 

about three miles distant, was in instant 
want of a clerical assistant. 

"Fo him I presently applied, and with- 
out hesitation, closed with his offer of al- 
lowing me twenty pounds a year ; but as 
this sum would barely find me in board, 
my patrimony began rapidly to decrease. 

Olivia, I need scarcely say, in the mean 
time, engaged all my regard. Our love 
was mutual and sincere ; and interest, 
that powerful incentive to modern con- 
tracts, was entirely overlooked by both ; 
for her fortu se was still inferior to my 
own. In a few months she consented to 
be irrevocably mine ; and I then thought 
my felicity beyond the reach of fate. — 
From this pleasing delusion, however, I 
had the misfortune to be speedily awaken- 
ed ; for finding my income very inade- 
quate to my e penses, I began to shudder 
at the thoughts of involving a beloved 
wife in want and misery. These gloomy 


258 Memoirs of a 

presages were too soon realized, by the 
death of my aged patron ; an event which 
wholly deprived me of employment. This 
stroke was followed by the birth of a son ; 
which though it ought to have taught me 
economy, and stimulated my exertions, 
only tended to lull my cares, and deaden 
my apprehension of want. 

After vainly endeavouring to obtain 
another curacy, and being disappointed in 
my expectations of a small living, by the 
machinations of my brother, who was 
now become abandoned, both in princi- 
ples and conduct, Olivia’s father was at- 
tacked by a paralytic stroke, which com- 
pelled him to resign the care of his church 
to me. The whole amount of his living 
did not exceed four- score pounds a year ; 
and consequently little could be allowed 
for the maintenance of a curate. My 
Olivia was again pregnant ; when I found, 
that exclusive of some trifling articles of 
furniture and books, I had scarcely one 
hundred pounds left : and, to add to my 
distress, a second paralytic stroke, and 
soon after that a third, deprived me of a 
valuable friend, whose effects, when dis- 
posed of, and his debts discharged, pro- 


Cornish Curate* 259 

duced only about three-score pounds, for 
his daughter’s portion. 

Being now destitute of every friend, my 
brother remaining irreconcileably invete- 
rate, and a native bashfulness of disposi- 
tion, for which the world is not always can- 
did enough to make proper allowances, 
having prevented me from extending my 
connexions, or securing a powerful patron, 
I was in such a distressed situation, that 
my mind began to sink beneath its bur- 
then, and to become weary of struggling 
with fate. 

The prospect, however, again brighten- 
ed ; and I obtained a very desirable cu- 
racy of thirty pounds a year, by the inters 
est of a young baronet, who had accident- 
ally seen Olivia and her two infant children 
and expressed the warmest desire to serve 
us. As a present proof of his friendship, 
he applied to the rector of his parish, of 
which he W’as himself patron, to accept 
my services in the room of a young man, 
whom an unfortunate and ill-requited at- 
tachment had just hurried to an untimely 
grave. 

To D 1 immediately removed with 

my dearest Olivia, whose kind solicitude 
I 3 


260 Memoirs of a 

for me was the only consolation of my 
life; and who, far from blaming me for 
that anxiety which continually clouded 
my aspect, kindly sympathised in my 
griefs, and endeavoured by the most en- 
dearing fondness to reconcile me to life. 
Sir Thomas S , by whose interposi- 

tion I had obtained my present establish- 
ment, likewise contributed all in his power 
to render my situation easy ; continually 
loading the children with presents, and of- 
fering me the loan of any sum, for winch 
I might ha\ e occasion. Of this last offer 
I imprudently and fatally availed myself, 
by borrowing two hundred pouiKls. To 
corroborate our good opinion of his gene- 
rosity, however, he bade me make myself 
perfectly easy in my situation ; for, on the 
present incumbent’s death, the living 
should instantly be mine. I thanked him 
with an ardour that mocked the expres- 
sions of form. But, alas ! I had to deal 
with a man of the world ; and found too 
soon, that I had nothing to hope from his 
bounty, and that I had poured forth my 
gratitude, where m}' execrations only were 
due. 

This unprincipled young man was oin 


Cornish Cufate. 


261 


constant visitor, and encouraged our ex- 
travagance, merely that he might have an 
opportunity of supplying our wants. My 
Olivia was charmed with his condescend 
sion ; and as virtue cannot readily suspect 
tijat artifice which it never practised, she 
congratulated me — she congratulated her- 
self and children — on the advantages we 
were likely to derive from a friendship, 
which neither of us could suppose to be 
interested, or base. The contrary, how- 
ever, soon a peared ! Olivia, whose beau- 
ty was rather improved tkin diminished, 
was invited to celebrate with me a Ciirist- 
mas festival at Sir Thomas’s. A blaniea- 
ble politeness to my supposed friend, easi- 
ly induced me to drink more plentifully of 
the wine, with whicn his board was pro- 
fusely covered, than my constitution and 
habits would bear ; and as I soon felt its 
effects, I was conveyed to bed in a state 
of ebriety and stupefaction. On Olivia, 
he likewise had the same shameful design ; 
but, guarded by the laws of delicate pro- 
priety, she resisted his most earnest solici- 
tations. However, as he attached himself 
entirely to her, his parasites and depen- 
dents, who saw plainly that he had views 


262 Memoirs of a 

upon her virtue, retired one after another, 
leaving Olivia and him together. Imme- 
diately on this he shut the door ; and be- 
seeching her attention for a few minutes, 
to an affair which nearly concerned his 
happiness, he began to insult her with the 
most violent protestations qf love, and 
swore that if she would not return his pas- 
sion he should never see another happy 
hour; addi .g, that she might command 
his fortune and his life, and that what he 
had already conferred, was only a prelude 
to what he meant to do. 

Awakened from her dream of happiness, 
she sprung up, and, animated with that 
courage which indignant virtue will ever 
feel, when it comes in contact with vice, 
she dared him again to wound her ears 
with his unhallowed vows ; protesting that 
his conduct should be made known to an 
injured husband, who would make him se- 
verely repent of his temerity. With all 
the insolence of conscious superiority, he 
then opened the door, and with a smile of 
contempt, informed her, that since she re- 
fused his friendship, his fortune, and I'lis 
love, she should feel the effects of his re- 
-ijeatment. These tlweats^ it is evident, the 


Cornish Curate, 


263 


base villain must have prepared to put in 
execution, previous to his diabolical invi- 
tation : for, before I descended next morn- 
ing to breakfast, I was arrested at his suit 
on my note for two hundred pounds, 
which I had pressed him to accept on his 
lending me that sum ; and as it was not 
in my power to satisfy one half of the de- 
mand, I was hurried away to prison. 

My prospects were now entirely blast- 
ed. Want, ignominy, and disgrace, pre- 
sented themselves to my view in their 
i most hideous aspects ; and I could have 
I laid down my life without a sigh, had not 
1 a faidiful and affectionate wife, with two 
infant children, bound me to them with 
ties of indissoluble regard. IVfy confine- 
inent, I was deeply sensible, could only 
i increase their misery, without a probability 
j of future relief ; yet the most unfortunate 
i cannot without reluctance let go those at- 
tachments which are so firmly rooted in the 
soul, or bid farewell to mortality with a 
s toical apathy. 

But, O God, my heart bleeds afresh at 
the recollection of the scene I am now 
going to pourtray — Vly Olivia, unable to 
S'upport her separation from me, requested 
I 4 


264 Memoirs of a 

leave to make my prison-room her habita- 
tion. The fatal request was granted : for 
a few days I was surrounded by my wife 
and children ; they cheered the gloom of 
a jail — But, can I proceed — I was soon 
deprived of these comforts for ever I In 
three short weeks after my commitment, 
they were carried off by an epidenoical 
fever ; and these eyes, which never belield 
the misery of a stranger, without besl.isw- 
ing the alms of pity’s tear, were doom^ d to 
behold a wife and tw^o innocents press the 
same untimely bier. 

The pathos of language is too weak to 
express my sensations : I became delirious, 
and my ow^i hands had nearly perpetrated 
a deed, which my soul abhors — for no'yv 
I had no more to lose ! And, gracious 
Heaven! if at that trying juncture, I ar- 
raigned thy justice, forgive me ! for afflic;- 
tion laid its iron hand too heavy upon me j. 
By degrees I fell into a settled despor i- 
dency ; and, since I entered this misers i- 
ble room, four years have rolled aw^ay 
their melancholy hours, in which I have 
hardly beheld the face of a friend, or bee n 
soothed by the voice of a relation, T1 ic 
hitrigues of my unnatural brother, wh iC 


Cornish Curate, 


265 


I leasjiied with Sir Thomas, on account of 
1 his cruelty to me, have prevented me from 
! obtaining my release ; and seem to have 
I shut the gates of mercy on my fate. My 
only expectation of deliverance is by the 
hand of death, for whose speedy approach, 
my prayers are continually offered up. 
When that happy period arrives, my soul 
shall soar above its enemies ; and leaving 
resentment entirely behind, shall taste that 
fruition, for which my misfortunes here, 
will give it the higher relish. 

From my melancholy tale, however^ 
which I have ardently desired to publish, 
before its authenticity could be disputed, 
let the sons of wealth and pleasure learn to 
reflect, while they enjoy the completion of 
their every wish, that there are many 
wretches, like me, whom their licentious- 
ness ruins, and whom their benevolence 
might save ! let those whom the charms of 
:,r,ionce allure to seek the heights of fame, 
Timely consider that learning is seldom the 
patli to preferment, and, that silent 
merit may sink unnoticed in the grave ! 
From my h\te, too, some defects in the 
best establishments may, perhaps, be 
traced ; and the depositaries of prefer- 


266 History. 

iTient and promotion be brought to allow 
that due regard ought to be paid to the 
virtuous and the modest in every sphere of 
life ; and that the road to honours and e- 
moluments should not be so commonly as 
it is, through the gate of superior address 
and unblushing assurance. 


LVII. HISTORY. 

Perhaps no branch of literature has been 
cultivated with more assiduity, in the 
present age, than History ; and in no pro- 
vince have the writers of our own nation 
gained more deserved applause than in 
this. We are now furnished with a lux- 
uriant crop of publications on the subject 
of general as well as national history : 
from the extended detail to the minute 
abridgment, all tastes are consulted and 
all conditions accommodated. 

Hence restrospective knowledge has 
been rapidly diffused ; and an acquain- 
tance with historical evidence is no longer 
confined to the learned, but may be found 


History. 267 

among the lowest ranks of the people. 
The cobbler will now descant on events in 
days of yore, regulate the balance of power, 

I and lay down the principles of liberty ; at 
[ the same time that he is ignorant of what 
[ is passing at the next door, has no power 
I to adjust, but to keep his share of custom 
I from being carried to the next stall, and 
j feels the only liberty he enjoys, is to work 
iOr starve. 

History is certainly adapted to enlighten 
die mind, as well as to entertain the fancy ; 

: E)ut on the plan it is now composed, die 
: n umber of those who read it and apply it 
i to useful purposes, is not great. To ex- 
tract its beneficial essence, requires some 
I judgment. It has been called, if I mis- 
take not, “ the science of instructing by 
, examples.” I would beg leave to dissent 
; from this definition : and describe it “ as 
the science that warns by contraries.” 

For what docs History in general present 
; to a contemplative mind ! — A disgusting 
detail of follies and of crimes ; of the inso- 
‘ lence of power, and the degradation and 
I misery of our kind. It records wars that 
I have swept the earth with the scourge of 
I desolation ; it harasses our feelings with 


268 


history, 

massacres, at which humanity turns pale ; 
it tortures our minds with the recitals of 
inquisitions and persecutions, for no other 
crime but worshipping God, according to 
the dictates ot one’fc own conscience ; it 
displays elevated rank and power, too fre- 
quently disgraced by atrocities that freeze 
us with horror, or by wanton and caprici-. 
ous follies, that sicken and disgust. 

Who are the most prominent portraits 
on the canvas of History ? — The blood- 
stained tyrant, the factious partisan, and 
the most abandoned enemies of virtuel 
and of man. Can such characters in- 
struct by example ? Unless to avoid 
their errors and their crimes, it had been 
better if their fame had perished with 
them. 

History, however, too often throws a 
false gloss over names that deserve noth- 
ing but our execration ; and thus it 
poisons the unreflecting, while they sup- 
pose themselves reaping instruction, or en- 
joying amusement. The hero is repre- 
sented in the most brilliant colours that 
language can bestow : the destroyer of 
thousands has a distinguished niche in the 
temple of historic fame ; while he who 


History, 269 

has spent his life in humanizing and illu- 
minating mankind, in diffusing the bless- 
ings of peace, and of civilization, is sel- 
dom honoured with a line to preserve his 
name. 

The maxim of de mortuis nil nisi honwn 
is often fatal to the best interests of the 
living. I could wish to see the illustrious 
enemies of human nature, painted in their 
true colours, and in tints that could not 
allure. I would brand them as the most 
detestable criminals, in order to warn 
others ; while none but the real benefac- 
tors of their kind should be held up to 
admiration, or honoured with applause. 

I wish to recommend a new mode of 
writing History. Were it composed on 
moral and philosophical principles, in- 
stead of political, as it now is, what an en- 
tertaining and instructive science it would 
be ! Were the actions of the principal 
performers on the stage of life brought to 
the test of reason, nature, religion, and 
truth, we should then be able to form a 
due estimate of characters ; but till 
something of this kind is accomplished, 
History ought to be read with extreme 
oaution ; and youth should be well 


210 Evasion allied to Falshood, 

guarded by previous instruction, from 
bestowing applause, where they ought 
only to detest and despise. 

After all, under the guidance of sound 
judgment and the dictates of virtue, His- 
tory is unquestionably a very necessary as 
well as ornamental branch of knowledge; 
and if we must not ever expect to see it 
treated in the manner I recommend, w 
may at least render it innoxious even 
in its present form, by enforcing tlie 
counteracting agency ef religion and 
morals. 


LVIII. EVASION ALLIED TO TALS- 
HOOD. 

A heedless youth, Vvhen at play, had 
the ill-luck to break two or three panes in 
the window of a poor widow’s cottage, 
\vho having pretty well ascertained the of^ 
lender, came in the most civil manner to 
his father, to complain of the injury she 
had received. 

Conscious of having done wrong, but 
unwilling to ov/n it, the culprit attempted 


Evasion allied to Falshood. 271 

to brave the accusation, and demanded 
proof of the charge. He had indeed been 
at play, he said, near the spot ; but so 
had others ; and he thought it hard, that 
he should be blamed on suspicion, and 
alone made responsible for the damage. 

“ Young man,” replied the father, 
“ your evasions convict you ; and I am 
ashamed of your meanness, in attempting 
to elude, what you cannot have the assu- 
rance to deny. The damage you have 
done may have happened from accident : 
it may have arisen from indiscretion, witli- 
out any malevolent intention ; but by at- 
tempting to disown it you make that 
criminal, which of itself might have de- 
served indulgence, as originating from 
inadvertence or mishap. 

“ Had you confessed your undesigned 
trespass on this poor woman, I should 
have readily recompensed her for the in- 
jury ; but as the case stands, I insist on 
your satisf} ing her, out of }^our own al- 
lowance. 

“ Though I cannot suspect 3'ou of the 
gross infamy of a direct falshocd, it being 
so much beneath j^our character and situa- 
tion, yet in point of moral turpitude voii 
I 5 


272 Evasion allied to Falshood. 

approach very near to this detestable and 
degrading vice. Not to confess, is to 
deny — no disguise of words, no paltry 
subterfuge, can exonerate you from the 
guilt, though they may save you from the 
absolute imputation of a lie. 

“ Whenever you haVe the misfortune 
to err, or to injure, shew contrition for 
your offence by a candid confession ; and 
offer all the reparation in your power, with 
full purposes of future amendment ; so 
will you be pitied, if you cannot be ex- 
cused ; and resentment for the wrong you 
have done, will speedily die away.” 

The youth hung his head in silent con- 
viction of his error ; and was ever after 
distinguished for a generous scorn of eva- 
sion or falshood, which gained him that 
lasting respe ct that a strict regard to vera- 
city so richly deserves, and so certainly 
acquires. 


273 


LIX, CAME OF TWENTY. 

TUTOR AND PUPIL. 

A long \\ inter evening requires varied 
amusement, to make it pass agreeably. 
Whatever improves the mind, humanizes 
the heart, or exercises the judgment, 
should form the basis of juvenile pastimes; 
and the modes by which instruction may 
be conveyed under the guise of entertain- 
ment, are not a few. Ingenuity should 
employ them all, that satiety may not in- 
duce languor, nor the natural bent for in- 
nocent pleasure be too strongly curbed, by 
the formality of didactic rules. 

To think with precision, is one grand 
step towards thinking justly. I will teach 
you the outlines of an amusing art, which 
you may fill up by practice, and vary with 
occasion. It is the art of telling what 
another thinks on, by appropriate questions 
and answers. 

T. Fix your thoughts on something fa- 
miliar by use. We should always pro- 
ceed by degrees from what is simple, to 
what is more difficult. 


274 Game of Txventy, 

P. I have fixed, Sir. 

Q. 1. Is it animal vegetable, or mi- 
neral ; or in other words, to which of the 
three kingdoms of nature does it belong ? 

A. It is animal and vegetable, I be- 
lieve. 

T. You must be certain — If you do 
not answer with strict propriety, it will be 
impossible for me to discover your mean- 
ing. 

P. It must be what I say. 

Q. 2. Is it in a natural or artificial 
state ? 

A. Artificial. 

Q. 3. Is it employed for use or orna- 
ment ? 

A. Use, chiefly. 

Q. 4. Is it a part of dress or food ? 

A. Neither. 

Q, 5. Is it used in domestic economy, 
or in the arts ? 

A. In domestic economy. 

Q. 6. Is it an article employed most 
by night or by day ? 

A. By night. 

T. Oh ! It is animal and vegetable — 
of consequence in some artificial state, is 
employed for use, and in domestic econo- 


Game of Txventy* il5 

my, by night. This surely must be a 
Candle. 

P. Indeed it was a candle I thought of. 
How clever this is ! 

T. The art is curious enough, if inge- 
niously handled ; but no set rules can 
teach you. Good sense and attention will 
be the best guides. A few general lead- 
ing questions are always necessary to be- 
gin with ; but it depends on one’s own 
judgment after^vards, to put them in such 
a manner, as may make each answer tend 
to illustrate what is required. 

You must understand, however, that if 
you do not discover in twenty questions 
what is thought on, you lose the game. 
Hence it has been called the Game of 
Twenty. I have k no wn some few per- 
sons, who were such perfect adepts in the 
art, that the most abtriise word, single 
idea, or even historical fact that could be 
conceived, would have been sohed by 
them, far within the limited number of 
interrogations. This proficiency, indeed, 
requires great strength of memory, a mind 
well-stored with knowledge, and correct- 
ed by taste ; but much humbler attain- 
ments will enable you to amuse and be 
amused. i 6 


276 Game of Twenty. 

Take an example of another kind, in 
confirmation of the preceding remark. 

Q. Think of some great man we have 
read of, and I will tell you who he is, in 
ten questions. 

A. I have thought. 

Q. Did he live before our Saviour ? 

A. Yes. 

Q. Was he a Grecian ? 

A. No. 

Q. A Roman ? 

A. Yes. 

Q. Was he a warrior, a statesman, or 
a literary character ? 

A. I shall call him a statesman. 

Q. Did he live before Carthage was de- 
stroyed ? 

A. I don’t this instant recollect Oh 

— I remember now — —It w’‘as after tliat 
event. 

Q. Did he study to correct morals, par- 
ticularly ? 

A. Not particularly. — You are think- 
ing of Cato the censor ? 

Q. I own it — but don’t you change ^ 

A. Do you doubt my truth ? 

Q. Was he eloquent ? 

A. Yes. 


Modesty and Contentment, 277 

Q. He spoke against Cataliqe : did he 
not ? 

A I see you have it. 

Q. It was Cicero. 

A. Right. — You have performed your 
promise. 


LX. MODESTY AND CONTENTMENT. 

EXEMPLIFIED IN THE 
HISTORY OF A COUNTRY APOTHECARY. 

It is too frequently the practice of mo- 
ralists to depict human life in gloomy lights 
and unfavourable hues ; to depress the as- 
pirings of hope, which it should be their 
study to raise and exhilarate ; and to add 
to the pressure of real calamities, by an 
enumeration of adscititious ills, which on- 
ly exist in the apprehensions of the short, 
sighted misanthrope, or the disappointed 
sybarite. It must, therefore, administer 
the highest satisfaction to e\ ery generous 
mind, to see the unfortunate blest with 
content, and the humble happy ; neither 


278 Modesty and Contentment, 

railing at the injustice of mankind, nor ar- 
raigning the impartiality of Providence. 

This train of reflection originated from 
a late accidental interview with an old 
schoohfellow whose amiable life and man- 
ners illustrate my remarks, and justly 
sanction my partiality for his character. 

Being called into the West of England, 
by business which admitted no delay, I 
set out on horseback without the attend- 
ance of a servant, which I never deemed 
conducive to pleasure, though in some 
circumstances it may be useful ; and as 
events fell out, would have been an acqui- 
sition to myself. When about ten miles 
from the place of my destination, my horse 
took fright ; I lost my seat, was violent- 
ly thrown on the ground, and for a short 
space had neither sense nor motion. As 
I b^gan to recover my recollection, I found 
myself considerably bruised, and scarce- 
ly able to move. I was, therefore, oblig- 
ed to continue on the spot for several hours, 
supporting myself with the hopes, that 
some person might cross the waste on 
which I lay, and assist me to the nearest 
house. At last, a shepherd providential- 
ly approached the spot ; and informing 


I Modesty and Contentment, 279 

I me that the town of B \^^as but a 

short mile off, humanely replaced me on 
my horse, and conducted me to the best 
inn the place afforded. 

The landlord being called, I inquired 
what ntedical assistance the town could 
supply. “We have a vastly clever apo- 
thecary, Sir ; and ^vith your permission, 
I’ll send for Mr. Drench directly : I have 
no doubt but that he will give you perfect 
satisfaction.” A messenger was accord- 
ingly dispatched for this gentleman ; but 
1 he soon returned, with a visage expres- 
sive of disappointment : the apothecary 
was gone out of town to dine with a party 
of friends, and would not return before 
night. — “Good heavens !” exclaimed I, 
“ can a person whose profession requires 
Ij constant and uniform vigilance, the ut- 
i most sobriety, and the coolest judgment, 
1 indulge himself in voluptuousness for so 
^ many hours ? Have you no friend to the 
sick poor, no man who acts in a subordi- 
nate station, who could free me from a 
few ounces of blood, and spread a plaster 
for my bruises ?” — “ O yes, wc have such 
a person as you mention : a man reckon- 
ed a great scholar too, by some people — 


280 Modesty and Contentment, 

but in all my life I never saw such a shy^ 
silly creature ! Wliy, he am scarcely be 
prevailed on to drink a single glass of 
wine ; nor did I ever see him in the com- 
pany of any of our great folks. His busi- 
ness lies only among the lowest class ; but 
if you please, Sir, we will call him, he is 
seldom out of the way.” — ‘‘ Send for him 
directly — my present situation seems ta 
require dispatch : and perhaps his abili- 
ties may be sufficient to give me ease.” 

In a few minutes, a thin pale figure en- 
tered, whose dress and looks neither be- 
spoke the proud, nor the successful prac- 
titioner. Untainted with the stale address, 
and the affected gravity of his brotherhood, 
and without any of their officious bustle, 
he approached me with a look ineffably 
grateful to a stranger ; kindly inquired my 
complaints, expressed his concern for the 
misfortunes of travellers, and modestly de- 
clared his hopes that he should soon be 
able to relieve me, and restore me in a 
short time to my family and friends. He 
performed the office of phlebotomy with 
abundant ease and dexterity; examined 
the state of my bruises, which he pro- 
nounced not dangerous ; and administer- 


Modesty and Contentment. 281 


ing some medicines, left me, with an as- 
surance of calling again in an hour to see 
how I was. “But,” added he, “I was 
stopped in my w’ay here to visit a dying 
man, whose physical guide has forsaken 
him for a dinner with the squire ; and I 
hold myself bound to exert my poor abi- 
lities to assist all who apply to me, whe- 
I tlier poor or rich, w’hcther friends or foes.” 

- This declaration gave me a more exalt- 
ed opinion of my attendant, than if he had 
boasted his reception among the great, 
expatiated on the number of his cures, and 
displayed the diamond on his finger. At 
the stated time he returned : and as I 
found myself considerably easier, and, be- 
sides, w’as desirous of some rational com- 
j pany, I requested the favour of his conver- 
j sation for the evening, or, at least such a 
j portion of it, as might be conveniently 
i spared from professional avocations. A 
look of complacency granted my request, 
before his lips could perform their office. 
He attentively surveyed me, as if , ing 
to recognize the face of an old acquain- 
tance, under the veil of years ; and at last 
with a half- stifled sigh exclaimed, — “I 
find you know me not — but I am much 


282 Modesty and Contentment. 

altered ; and how can you be supposed to 
recollect your once loved Montford un- 
der this disguise, and in this situation 

“ Good God ! can the once honoured 

Montford, the companion of my youth, 
be transformed into the little apothecary 
of a country town ? and am I fortunate 
enough to meet with a friend, where I ex- 
pected only a mercenary attendant!” — 
“ Patience ! and I will indulge you with a 
recital of my fortunes. You are no stran- 
ger to the deceitful prospects of my birth ; 
you know the manner of my education ; 
but, from the time that our union was dis- 
solved at school, my history, I am well 
aware, is a secret to my Stanley. 

“ When I was sixteen years of age, I 
lost my father : my mother had been call- 
ed from this world to a better, before my 
infantine simplicity could be sensible of her 
departure. My estates were consigned to 
guardians ; and their own necessities soon 
prompted them to make free with my pos- 
sessions. They were naturally well in- 
clined, and had they been fortunate, per- 
haps would have acted with integrity : but 
they were exposed to temptations which 
they had not sufficient fortitude to resist ; 


Modesty and Contentment, 283 

and thus betrayed that trust, the preserva- 
tion of which, should have been held infi- 
i nitely more sacred, tlian the fulfillino: of 
I personal and private engagements. They 
I had received a commission which could 
i not be recalled. My father reposed in 
I the fullest confidence, that he had secured 
the happiness of an only and beloved son, 
by placing him under such guardians, 
with the most unlimited power. What 
. criminality then w^as attached to their want 
of faith, and their breach of a dying man’s 
i requests ! But why this retrospect ! I 
! soon found that the prospects which my 
! birth gave me liberty to indulge, were va- 
; nished for ever ; that, instead of being the 
I munificent patron of indigent merit, and 
i the friend of the unfortunate, I was to 
I learn the sufferance of upstart pride, sub- 
1 mission to those who were once my infe- 
I riors, and all that train of humble virtues, 
which, though less essential to the elevat- 
ed, are indispensably necessary for the 
lowly. Having never wantoned however, 
in the idea of affluence, from a view of per- 
sonal gratifications, and feeling little reluc- 
tance in being debarred from fashionable 
indulgencies, and removed from the con- 
VOL. I. K 


284 Modesty and Contentment. 

tamination of fashionable vices ; I sei 
about acquiring those notions which rea- 
son and prudence taught me, w^ere adapt- 
ed to the humble sphere in which I was 
destined to move : and with sincerity can 
aver, that the loss of fortune affected me 
less, than many incidents that have since 
overtaken me in the walk of life. 

“ My guardians (if the world will allow 
them the appellation) with the small re- 
mains of my fortune, saved from their ge- 
neral wreck, put me apprentice to an apo- 
thecary in London ; and with him I serv- 
ed seven years, as happily as I could pos- 
sibly desire. 1 will not attempt to deli- 
neate the character of this worthy man, 
whom I revered as a father, and loved as a 
friend. He is now' beyond the reach of my 
censure or applause; his good deeds have 
attended him to a happier state ; and his 
foibles were so few, that it was impossi- 
ble they should impede his passage thither. 
Unbounded charity and beneficence, a 
feeling soul, in tune with distress, and a 
promptitude to relieve it, were only a few 
of his distinguishing perfections. From 
him I imbibed principles, which I should 
never have acquired with so much relish^' 


Modesty and Contentmeiit, 285 

in the enjoyment of hereditary fortune ; 
and I bless God, that though my opportu- 
nity of doing good is but circumscribed, 
my inclination for it is not cold ; and I re- 
flect with conscious pleasure, that remune- 
ration will at last be apportioned not to ac- 
tions only, but to intentions also. 

“ Unable to force my way to attention, 
and better qualified to feel than to express 
my sense of kindness ; after my master’s 
death, which happened before I had been 
two years released from my apprenticeship, 
i I found the greatest difficulty in obtaining 
employment, in the humble capacity of 
journeyman. One master apothecary dis- 
liked my address ; another advised me to 
shave my head, and equip myself in a 
physical p( ruke ; and a third recommend- 
i ed the stu. y of Chesterfield, whose aphor- 
j isms, he said, were of more consequence 
to the faculty than those of Hippocrates* 

' Sometimes I had the misfortune to diso- 
; blige a patient by contradicting a favou- 
rite humour, the indulgence of which I 
i knew would be injurious, if not fatal ; and 
i frequently my master was dissatisfied, be- 
cause, as he termed it, I did not throw in 
medicines enough, when there was a suf- 


286 Modesty and Contaitment, 

ficient opening. You will allow my dear 
Stanley 1 — forgive the freedom of the 
address — you will allow, there is a princi- 
ple called conscience ; and that w hen a 
man acts contrary to its decisions, he looks 
in vain for felicity. Directed by this po- 
tent rule, I endeavoured to do justice to^ 
all mankind, and to square my actions by 
the divine rule, of doing as I w^ould be 
done by. I neither tampered with thecon- 
«?titution of patients, to drain their purses , 
nor would allow them to rush to an 
untimely grave, when convinced, that re- 
strictions wTre necessary to be laid, and . 
their practice enforced. These qualities, 
though they did not procure me credit 
with the great, have tended to alleviate the 
ills to which I have been exposed ; and 
in a profession like mine, where the small- 
est deviations from rectitude of intention or 
action may possibly prove fatal to a fel- 
low-creature, it is surely some consolation 
to be able to ponder without self-accusa- 
tion. 

“ Finding it impossible to establish my« 
self on the busy stage of life, I retired 
from the capital ; and about fifteen years j 


Modesty and Contentment. 287 

ago, took up my residence here. I soon 
became acquainted v\ ith a young woman, 
who, like myself, had been born to better 
fortune, but like me, had been disappoint- 
ed. A similarity of situations, as well as a 
(congeniality of dispositions, engaged us 
to each other, by the strongest ties of mu- 
tual affection. She soon became my wife ; 
and, if I have ever felt any unhappiness in 
her presence, since she vowed to be mine, 
it was only when she repined at my hard 
fortune, and reluctantly resigned herself to 
the dispensations of Providence. 

“ My children are numerous and heal- 
thy : they are neither pampered with de- 
licacies, nor spoiled by indulgence. Oiir 
situation will not admit of the one, and I 
hope we are too w ise to give way to the 
other. 

From my appearance, I presume it 
will be needless to add, that much suc- 
cess has never been my lot. The weak- 
nesses I have already enumerated, and 
w^hich are too dear to be resigned, have 
kept me from being considered as the first 
man in my profession, even in this poor 
place. But if I have never been a fiwou- 


288 Modesty and Contentment, 

rite among the rich, or patronized by the 
great, I have had many friends among the 
poor; and to them I have reciprocally 
proved myself a friend> 

“ I hope it will not be deemed vain-glo- 
rious to insinuate, that I am conscious of 
having frequently administered ease to the 
afflicted, of having soothed the rage of 
disease, and given a respite to the flitting 
soul. Though my employers, in gene- 
ral, are little able to grant pecuniary com- 
pensation, I feel myself happy in their con- 
fidence ; and I would not forego the plea- 
sure of assisting the poorest person in dis- 
tress, for the honour of waiting on gran- 
deur in its festal hours.” 

Here my friend paused — I embraced 
him with tears of joy. “ Montford, 
you are too good for this world — ^your va- 
lue is hid, like that of a diamond in the 
mine — your principles do honour to hu- 
man nature ; but might you not be more 
extensively useful to the community, 
were you inspired with a little additional 
seif-consequence; which, however strange 
it may appear, is always repaid with the 
confidence of mankind.” 


Modesty and Contentment* 289 

• Naturam expellas furca^ tamen 

usque recurret I have acted conforma- 
bly to my disposition : I have made my 
election, and am content. I feel more, 
internal peace, than I could have gained 
by the adoption of your maxims ; and 
what has a wise man to look for here of 
more genuine value?” — “ But you have 
ties, Montford, which justify more vigo- 
rous exertions — a family looks up to you 
for support, and can you disregard their 
advantage ?” A tear was ready to fall, 

1 but he checked it with manly fortitude. 

I “You weaken my resolution, Stanley; 

; you awaken my tenderest sensations ; 

but I cannot be more happy, than in the 
i conaciousness of rectitude ; nor did any 
I one ever attempt to alter the bias of his 
I nature with effect.” 

1 “ Montford, I have been what the 

; xvorld calls more fortunate ; I have an am- 
I pie income, without any incumbrance. I 
! have neither wife nor children. Will you 
I permit me to adopt some of your little 
ones ? 1 shall love them for your sake ; 
nor can I more advantageously dispose 
of some superfluous thousands, than in 


290 Modesty and Co7itentmenU 

cherishing a virtuous family, as I am sure 
my Montford’s must be.” 

He would have made acknowledg- 
ments ; but his words were lost in the 
utterance. He wept like a child — I could 
only hear-^“ This is too much ! but you 
will meet with a reward.” 

In a few days I was perfectly restored, 
by the skill and attention of Montford. 
I pressed him to accompany me, and par- 
ticipate of my fortune ; but he delicately 
declined the acceptance of my offers. 
“ There are some here who might miss 
me, poor as I am. I receive with grati- 
tude your proffered kindness to my chil- 
dren — but for myself, I am happy, and 
Mdiathas my Stanley more to confer?” 

Such is the true history of a man, who 
possesses qualities that would have adorn- 
ed the highest station ; but has too much 
honesty to gain homage from the vain, 
and too much humility to attract the no- 
lice of the great. 


291 


LXI. NEGRO SLAVERY.* 

AN APO:>TROPHE. 

What must the feelings of that man 
^ be, who can engage in a traffic, at once 
I repugnant to die calls of humanity, and 
the precepts of religion — the barbarous 
traffic in human blood ! Who can tear 
j the simple negro from his country, his 
, attachments, and his bliss — who can load 
him with irons, to secure that dependance 
I which his free-born spirit disdains — and 
I who, instead of soothing the anguish of 
i keen sensibility, enforces his obedience 
\ with menaces and whips ! 

Ye harmless natives of Africa, what 
have ye done, to deserve being marked 

* The author enters into no arguments, re- 
specting the fiolicy or the firq/its of slavery. 
His simple effusions of the heart on this sub- 
ject, will never be seen by those whom he pities, 
and will be disregarded by those whom he 
blames. But a day must come, when the wrongs 
of Africa will be avenged, and eternal justice’ 
triumph ! It already dawns, and humanity hail? 
its brightening rays. 


292 


Negro Slavery. 

out, as the victims of European, I dare 
not say Christian avarice? Ye whom 
Providence has separated from us by 
oceans and continents, why should you 
be dragged from your native woods, to 
smart under the lash of those to whom ye 
owe no allegiance, and to fatten with your 
blood, a soil from which ye reap no in- 
crease ! Is it that luxury may riot on the 
sw^eat of your brow, that inhumanity may 
wallow in affluence, earned by your stripes; 
or is it, great and eternal God ! to fill ujr 
the measure of our crimes, that thou per- 
mittest this flagrant violation of thy laws? 

Alas ! commerce, the nurse of the 
blackest enormities, the frequent source 
of war and devastation, is your bane, and 
may eventually be our ruin. Our fore- 
fathers were once as simple and as igno- 
rant as you ; but they loved their coun- 
try, they staid at home ; while we, their 
oftspring, disgrace it, wherever w^e ex- 
tend our intercourse. In vain shall we 
tell you of a pure religion, of a future 
judgment, of an impartial retribution. 
Those with whom you are unfortunately 
connected, prove too sensibly by their 
conduct, that their belief has no influence 


29a 


JVegro Slavery, 

on their practice Iii' vain shall we tell 
you, that misery is the growth of every 
clime, and that you are no more wretch- 
ed in a foreign land, than you would be 
in your own. Nature and reason abjure 
the flimsy pretext. In your breasts the 
love of your country flows as warm as in 
our’s ; and who was ever brought to re- 
gard eternal banishment, as an agreeable 
alternative for any thing less than death I 
Besides, our avarice is the grand original 
source of all your ills. We excite the 
sordid passions of robbery and gain in 
the bosom of your chiefs ; and then di- 
rect them as engin^ to produce our own 
interest, and yoUr ruin ! Aggravated in- 
famy! unparalleled barbarity! To spread 
devastation, and to exult in its progress 
— to sow the seeds of guilt, and to reap 
with joy the full harvest of our iniquity i 
To you, my countrymen, permit me 
now to appeal. Renowned for all the 
arts that can embellish life, for all the 
powers that can render friendship valua- 
ble, or enmity dreadful ; blessed in gene- 
ral, with hearts to feel for distress, and 
with hands ready to relieve it, — why, 
when thus happy, thus great, and thus 


294 


A^egro Slavery, 

amiable, will you suffer the national glory 
to be tarnished, by the inhuman avarice 
of a worthless few ! 

Thank God ! the liberal spirit of hu- 
manity is gone abroad ; and a virtuous 
indignation is roused, against those who 
disgrace the British name. But though 
the cause is one of the noblest in which 
generous and enlightened minds can em- 
bark, though Heaven unquestionably 
views our exertions wdth complacency, it 
is necessary, that zeal should be temper- 
ed with moderation, lest clemency rashly 
extended, should defeat its own purpose. 

In the constitution of things in this 
world, it is impossible to separate the evil 
entirely from the good ; and when we 
are plynged deeply into error, it is not in 
our pow^r, by one single effort, to reco- 
ver. The immediate and absolute eman- 
cipation of your slaves, is only the scheme 
of the visionary enthusiast ; it would be 
attended with more dreadful effects, thait 
it is calculated to relieve. To check the 
progress of the evil— to allow the unfor- 
tunate beings, now under the whip of 
their task-masters, all the privileges of 
human creatures — all tlie indulgencies 


Suspicion. ^95 

that religion and justice demcind, would 
at once conduce to your interest, your 
happiness, and your credit. 

But if interest, if happiness, if credit 
are of no estimation in your eyes, think 
on future consequences; think on the 
pr'ecepts of religion ; think on the liopes 
of immortality ! 


LXII. SUSPICION. 

THE FATE OF HILARUS. 

A suspicious mind is always base and 
corrupt. Its vigilance is in proportion to 
the depravity from which it proceeds. 
The candid, the charitable, and the up- 
right, seldom have the least tincture of 
this mean passion ; but on the contrary, 
despise it, as equally troublesome to their 
repose, and derogatory to their character. 
And with just reason they may ; for what 
prompts suspicion? A consciousness- 
that were we in the situation of the per- 
son we suspect, we should be guilty of 
all we impute to him ; that we should in- 
K 3 


296 


Suspicion. 

dulge in the vices, or give way to the 
temptations which are thrown in his way, 
either by accident or choice. 

This is no very honourable acknow^ 
ledgment ; but it is evidently made, when 
a person doubts the purity of others’ 
motives or actions, or questions their in^ 
tegrity, without the clearest conviction. 

The misfortune, however, is, that the 
evil is not confined to the wretched breast 
that breeds it. Were it to revert on it- 
self, few would pity it ; and its exercise 
would be more venial ; but suspicion not 
only injures, but frequently ruins the 
character on which it is fixed, however 
unjustly — and what is still worse, it has 
often been known to drive those who 
were really virtuous, to become all that 
has been insinuated against them, by de- 
signing malice, or prying jealousy ! 

When men lose the rewards which 
they feel to be due to their merit, they too 
frequently lose the desire of persevering 
in virtuous conduct. The duty that sur- 
vives the hope of success, is seldom per- 
formed V ith energy, or regarded as co- 
ercive. It requires a magnanimity more 
than common, to do well, and to sulfur 


297 


Suspicion* 

ill — to deserve praise, and yet incur the 
imputation of blame. 

When suspicions, which no circum- 
spection can remove, sully the untainted 
character — in spite of better reason, it 
naturally yields to its fate ; and soon, 
either becomes tinctured with the hue in 
which it has been so uncharitably dipped 
or lost in the apathy of indifference 

Hiiarus was a sprightly ingenuous 
youth ; the idol of his mother, and the ad- 
miration of all who knew him. His dis- 
positions were generous and bland ; hu- 
manit}^ glistened in his eye, and good na- 
ture rested in his heart. In him, if pos- 
sible, the latter quality was carried to a 
faulty extreme. He was fond of inno- 
cent amusement, for it was suited to his 
age ; and he loved cheerful society, be- 
cause all his associates cordially loved 
him. Thus all went on in its natural and 
proper course ; he was happy, and he 
wished to make others so, till his mother’s 
weakness, and, according to the princi- 
ples we have laid down, her wickedness 
too, conspired to overset the fabric of her 
fondest hopes, and. made her, wiiat she 
deserved to be — miserable. 


298 


Suspicion. 

Hilarus had no bad propensities to re- 
strain ; he might have some indiscretions; 
but you saw his heart at once ; it was too 
honest for disguise. 

His mother, whenever he was absent 
from her sight, began to receive him on 
his return, with a harsh lecture on pru- 
dence, though he had never been known 
nor suspected to swerve from its dictates. 
She insinuated injurious opinions against 
his companions ; and recommended mor- 
tifications, neither natural nor reasonable. 
Her maternal fondness might render her 
vigilant to check the appearance of real 
errors or crimes — her duty bound her to 
this ; but her indiscreet suspicions and 
cautions gave Hilarus the very first idea 
of their existence in the world. 

He was conscious he had done no 
wrong — his companions, as far as he 
knew, had the same clear mind ; he did 
not like to be curbed without cause ; and 
he felt a generous indignation against 
those who could propagate reports to the 
injury of the friends he esteemed. With 
modesty and affection — for he was as du- 
tiful as he was good — he represented to 
his mother his earnest solicitude to oblige, 


299 


Suspicion^ 

and his desire to avoid deserved blame ; 
but his soul was too noble not to spurn 
at suspicion; he wished it might be 
dropped for ever. 

His amusements, however, harmless 
as they were, and even praise- worthy, felt 
a chill from what had passed : he enjoyed 
himself less than usual ; he became re- 
served, without a temper for reserve; he 
studied to please, but with the study, he 
lost the natural expression of pleasure. 

This apparent change confirmed his 
mother in her suspicions. When jealous 
doubts have once got possession of the 
mind, even contraries serve for confirma- 
tions of truth. She now proceeded far- 
ther to torture herself and him ; she 
made enquiries of low and unprincipled 
persons into every part of her son's conr 
duct and connexions, on purpose to dis- 
cover iiavrs. Her disposition was soon 
seen, and her humour was flattered ; she 
heard as many hints and inuendoes as sa- 
tisfied her, she ought to be unhappy ; but 
as for proofs, or even the semblance of 
probability, they were entirely disregard- 
ed. 

The attentions she had hitherto shewn 
K 4 • 


SOO Suspicion, 

to Hilarus’s credit and happiness, uere 
now changed to tears and remonstrances ; 
his home became a prison ; and his best 
beloved friends were either cooly treated, 
or grossly insulted. He tried a thousand 
times to break through his mother’s de- 
lusions and prejudices — alas! in vain. 
His attempts frustrated the intended ef- 
fect. Absurdity is not to be reasoned 
with. “ He did not love her, or he would 
give her more of his company — he would 
leave this acquaintance, or form one with 
that,'*'* He loved his mother as he ought, 
but she little tried to render her society 
agreeable ; and therefore it could not be 
expected a young man would exclusive- 
ly confine himself to it. Besides, he 
knew not what it was to possess a heart 
capable of the baseness of treacherously 
sacrificing any of his friends to unfound- 
ed suspicions. He remonstrated against 
the cruelty and injustice of his mother’s 
notions, both of him and them. He 
humbly requested to know on w hat au - 
thorities the partial charges \soxo founded. 
They were only vague surmises, heedless 
words, or hai mlcss sallies of youth : si- 
tuations, circumstances, and misrepre- 


301 


Suspicion . 

sentations, without meaning, and there- 
fore incapable of proof ; yet these em- 
bittered his life ; and as he found, after 
reiterated attempts, that he could not en- 
joy his rational pursuits without disoblig- 
ing, by degrees he gave up the desire of 
obliging. He resigned himself to intem- 
perance and excess of every kind, in or- 
der to drown reflection, more than to in- 
dulge appetite. He became hardened 
by the strokes of censure ; and, in short, 
learned from the suspicions he had un- 
justlv suffered, to incur the guilt of every 
vice\vith which he had been falsely tax- 
ed ; and which, had he been left to him- 
self, he would have utterly abhorred, and 
blushed even to think of. 

The mother of Hilarus saw this with 
anguish, but still ignorantly and wicked- 
ly ascribed his perverseness to natural de- 
pravity, instead of assigning it to the true 
cause. She even prided herself on her 
prudent advice, and that she had foretold 
what would happen. Her presages, in- 
deed, followed like cause and effect.— r 
His friends who v ere capable of forming 
lust and impartial sentiments, lamented 
the fatal suspicions and impolitic re- 


302 Suspicion. 

straints, that had robbed them and society, 
of a person bora to be one of tlieir bright- 
est ornaments. 

The distracted parent too, at last, saw 
and confessed her error ; but it was now 
too late. Reformation is no easy ta<>k 
when habits are once confirmed ; and the 
despair of gaining credit for amendment, 
when innocence could not secure from 
blame, rendered Hilariis at last perfect- 
ly indifferent to censure or applause. 

The mother and child were equally 
wretched. But had the former been half 
as virtuous in heart as the latter was in- 
clined to be; or had she possessed pru- 
dence enough to conceal her temper, both 
might have passed their lives in comfort, 
and affection ; and duty and affection 
i^ight have mutually solaced their breasts. 

REFLECTION. 

All ages, and particularly youth, should 
be treated with a generous confidence, and 
allured to right, by making a regard to 
their happiness the apparent motive of 
every restraint, which prudence or duty 
may wish to impose, Whoe.\ er is not 


Sonnet. 


303 


made happy in liis domestic and private 
intercourse, will soon cease to be inspired 
with the emulation of desert ; and sus- 
picions, however justly indulged, should 
ever be hinted with the most delicate ad- 
dress. But for these neglects, Hilarus 
would have been virtuous and happy I 


LXIII. SONNETp 
TO TIME. 

As o*er thy course I cast reflected eye. 

And measure back thy flight in pensive 
thought, 

Fond mem’ry dwells on hours of ecstasy, 

But sickens at whole years with anguish 
fraught. 

So in the sky will lucid spots appear, 

While dark and dismal looks the general 
sphere. 

Hast thou, O time I within thy future womb 
No more of bliss than yet my soul has known ? 

Borne on thy wings, have I no joys to come. 
And must misfortune mark me for her own ? 

Then speed thy leaden flight, nor let thy stay 
Prolong to distant years my sense of woe ! 

^lort be my span, till in eternal day. 

Hose remembrance of thy lapse below. 


304 


Poetical Reply, 


The author is tempted to subjoin the 
following beautiful lines, which w^cre ad- 
dressed to him, on reading the above Son- 
net, by an amiable and accomplished 
Lady, of whose friendship he is ju 



proud. f| 

Ah ! why, my friend, with such keen sense 
of woe, 

X)oes thy sweet muse attune her plaintive lyre ?, 
Why bid to grief her dulcet numbers flow, j 
And quench in sorrow’s fount her sacred fire ? ,j 

Alas ! I fear, in thy too feeling mind. 

Pale melancholy holds her morbid reign : 

She round thy lyre her lurid wreath entwin’d, 
And bade it breathe so sadly sweet a strain. 

Ah ! break, my friend, her soul-subduing 
power; 

Nor, let her poison every rising joy ; 

With anguish she will mark each gloomy 
. hour, 

And all thy native energies destroy. 

To her dark spells oppose the steady light. 
That glows around Religion’s angel form ; 

Let mild Philosophy her beams unite — 
Their rays will dissipate each mental storm. 

O ! think not that for misery thou wast born, 
Nor wish to hasten Time’s impetuous flight; 


'* Golden Rules* 305 


Time yet may bring thee many a cloudless 
morn, 

And many an evening wing’d with calm delight. 

Science for thee shall spread her ample page ; 
Learning her varied stores for thee unfold ; 

Sweet thy lighter hours engage, 

And sportive Fancy revel uncontrol’d, 


What, though the vulgar and illib’ral mind 
Despise that excellence it^can’t attain ; 

Yet ’midst the generouslTew, by taste refin’d, 
Thy merit a distinguish’d place shall gain. 

Ah ! waste not then in vain regret those hours, 
Which rightly us’d, will earn thee lasting fame, 
With energy exert thy various powers. 

And Time shall spread new glories round thy 
name. 

ASPASIA. 

’'k'% • ■ 


i.XIV. TWENTY GOLDEN RULES OF 
PRUDENT ECONOMY NECESSARY 
TO BE STUDIED IN EARLY YOUTH, 
THAT THEY MAY BE PRACTISED 
AT MATURER AGE. 


■ I. Whenever you feel yourself dispos- 
ed to go to the tavern, club, or anyplace 
of public or private entertainment, stay at 


306 


Golden Rules, 


home ; and put down under this head« 
what you reasonably suppose it would 
have cost you, had you indulged your 
taste for pleasure or dissipation. 

II. When business can be as well dis- 
patched by a letter as by a journey, calcu- 
late the difference in the ex pence, and con- 
sider it as clear gain. 

III. If under the necessity of taking a 
journey, compare the expence of going on 
foot, on horseback, or in a carriage ; and 
whatever you save by altering your usual 
mode of travelling, is unquestionably so 
much put into your pocket. 

IV. When invited to make one on a 
party of pleasure, near home, or to take 
a distant excursion, not only estimate the 
money it will cause you to expend, but 
how much you may save or earn by de«< 
dining the allurement. Enter this on the: 
credit side of your accounts. 

V. When you see any fruit, tarts, trin-J 
kets, or toys, which tempt you to draw 
your purse, but which you can do ver}^ 
well without, pull out as much money as 
the present object of temptation would 
cost, and set it apart as so much gained. 


307 


Golden Rules. 

VI. If you have more servants, horses, 
dogs, or carriages, than are necessary, or 
suitable to your fortune and rank in life, 
retrench till you barely consult conveni- 
ence ; and in many cases the balance in 
youi favour will be very considerable. 

VII. When you ask a party of friends 
to dinner (for without some society life is 
insupportable,) make out a bill of fare, 
equally remote from extravagance and 
meanness ; and instead of pressing bum- 
pers, have the good manners and good 
sense to let each drink as he likes ; by 
which means your stock of wine will last 
the longer, and you will save yourself and 
company a head-ache, or a debauch ; be- 
sides no inconsiderable charges it W’ould 
cost you to obtain this poor gratification. 
N. B. This rule is to be applied to all 
superfluous domestic expences. 

V III. If you have a taste for showy or 
useless improvements, in order to indulge 
yourself, you may make or get an esti- 
mate made of what they would cost ; but 
put the money by, for some more urgent 
occasion. 

IX. When you see your neighbour or 
equal changing his furniture, or new hang- 
K 5 


508 


Golden Rides. 


ing his rooms, because the fashion has 
changed, do not be fool enough to copy 
him ; but think how much he spends idly, 
and estimate what you save wisely. 

X. Never lay out your money in dress 
before it is wanted on the score of contort 
and decency ; nor fancy that you gain con- 
sequence, in proportion to the expensive- 
ness of your apparel. Only women and 
beaux value finery ; and all the world 
knows they are laughed at for their folly 
and extravagance. 

XI. Should indolence endeavour to arrest 
you, rouse yourself manfully ; and if you 
know any honest means of employing a 
few leisure hours to advantage, reckon 
how much you gain by opposing a favour- 
ite inclination. 

XII. And to conclude : if you have 
any private expences which may be re- 
trenched, convert them to the service of 
the poor, or the benefit of your family, if 
you have one. Thus you will frequently 
save your pocket, your credit, and your 
constitution, three things on which a wise 
and good man still continues to fix some 
value, notwithstanding the vicious refine- 
ments of the age. 


The dead Blackbird. 


309 


These rules, duly observed, mutatis 
according to age, circumstances, 
and situation, will tend to make men rich 
and respectable, enable them to do good, 
and promote long life and happiness. 


LXV. THE DEAD BLACKBIRD. 

I am charmed, my dear boy, at the sen- 
sibility you display for the loss of your 
bird. Never be ashamed to shed the tear 
of pity — it is brighter than a gem ; and 
will endear you to every friend of humani- 

I participate in your feelings — I enter 
into your emotions ; and that you may 
have some memorial of your lamented, 
favourite, I have tried to express them for 
you in verse. I think there is a sympathy 
of mind between us — a congeniality of 
disposition and sentiment, no less binding 
than the ties of parent and child ; and I 
wish to live in your thoughts, by as many 
tender recollections as possible. 

Perhaps at the painful moment of sepa- 
ration between you and me — when I too 


310 


The dead Blackbird. 


shall cease to breathe or to sing — you may 
recal this little scene of sorrow ; and the 
concern you now shew is an earnest, I 
hope, of that filial regard you will then pay 
to me, though I may be insensible of it. 

Sonnet on a Young Blackbird^ that died at 
Christinas. 

Tis done— sweet bird ; with fond assiduous car^, 
From callow state I rear’d thee, pleas’d to see 
Thy beak turn yellow*, and thy plumage wear 
The ebon tint* that promis’d minstrelsy. 

By slow degrees thy twittering voice was heard. 
Sweet prelude of thy song, my lov’d, my 
hop’d reward. 

As flew the months that still the tuneful throat, 
Anticipation dream’d of pleasures near ; 
With vernal suns, it bade thy mellow note 
Thrill on my ravish’d and expectant ear. 

But death has chas’d those visions, once so 
bright — . 

No strain of thine shall wake the vernal morn j 
Yet oft affection, with a sad delight, 

Shall list in thee, thy fellows on the thorn. 

* Signs of a male, to which sex, the song in 
birds is generally confined. 


3il 


LXVI. LETTER TO W. J. J. 11. F. G. M. 
DEAREST CHILDREN, 

Real alFection extends its views beyond 
the grave ; its bounds are only those oi 
eternity itself. 

If such is my regard for you, time and 
reflection alone can enable you to deter- 
mine. Sure I am, that I have never sa- 
crificed the happiness of the future, to the 
weak indulgence of the present. My own 
feelings have often been severely wound- 
ed, when the imperious calls of duty forc- 
ed me to consult your permanent welfare, 
at the ex pence of that fondness, which is 
so delightful to a parent in his children. 

Mine has been a difiicult task ; but I 
have not swerved from my best attentions 
to you. Necessity as well as choice made 
me your preceptor ; and I have found it 
no easy matter to blend the character of 
father and master ; for parental affection 
often inclines to spare the momentary pain, 
while magisterial duty sees it necessary, in 
order to operate some future good. 

It has, however, been my sole object 

K 6 


312 


Letter. 


to make you happy, and my delight to ob- 
serve you so ; but I have judged for you, 
when I was sensible you could not judge 
for yourselves ; and I have certainly much 
Jess studied what would please for the mo- 
ment, than what would profit you for 
ever. 

Duly appreciating my conduct and mo- 
tives, when you arrive at maturer years, 
will, I trust, convince you, that my strong- 
est ambition waste be your Friend. 
This is a title dearer to me than father. I 
have endeavoured to instil useful learning 
and generous principles, into your tender 
minds ; and I can already reflect with 
pleasure, that the soil has not been cultivat- 
ed quite in vain, and that the fruit begins 
to appear. May it ripen to the perfection 
I desire ! 

My only consolation is derived from 
this expectation. I have supported vari- 
ous distress from various causes, animat- 
ed by the hope alone of being beneficial to 
you. Whether I shall live to see my 
fondest wishes realized, and my labours 
repaid in your welfare ; or whether I shall 
even be able to discharge the final part of 
my oSice as your tutor, your tender age 


Letter* 


313 


and my situation render precarious and un- 
certain. To Providence I resign myself, 
without a wish, except what centres in 
you! 

I was anxious, however, to leave you 
some public pledge of my affectionate so- 
licitude, whatever might be the event. It 
is the part of prudent resignation, to pro- 
vide for any contingency. 

The foregoing pages, which were chief- 
ly written to entertain or instruct you, will 
display some traits of character which I 
wi^i you to imitate, and will point out 
some defects which I wish you to avoid. 
They recommend studies conducive to 
your advantage or improvement : they at- 
tempt sometimes to interest the heart, and 
sometimes to amuse the fancy. What is 
addressed to the heart, has flowed from 
mine : to feel with excess, is in me rather 
a distemper than a study. 

Should life and opportunity permit, it 
is not improbable but I may add to these 
literary trifles : in the mean while I con- 
clude with the wish and advice conveyed, 
in the subsequent verses, — 

Your most affectionate 

FATHER. 


314 


Letter. 


In peaceful arts, O I may the youth I love, 
Spend the long tenor of their happy days ; 
And smit with Science, seek the silent grove. 
Or court the Muses in immortal lays i 

Adown the stream of time glide gently on, 

Nor listen to ambition’s sounding voice ; 

Nor prostrate reason from her mental throne, 
And drotvnher whispers in tumultuous joys. 

Or, if by fate, or choice, to business led. 

And doom’d to move in trade’s contracted 
sphere, 

With steady steps the paths of honour tread, 
And fame and riches shall attend you here. 

Or beats your breast to view Some foreign land, 
And spread the sail of commerce o’er the 
main ; 

Where happy climes, and temp’rate seasons 
bland, 

W’ith native plenty deck the untill’d plain — 

Go ! and attend to virtue’s sacred call ; 

Through boundless space the Deity presides ; 
And neither cares distress, nor fears appal. 

The hallow’d breast that conscious virtue 
guides. 

But shun, O shun ! the crimson’d blush of 
shame. 

And baneful pleasure’s soft bewitching lure; 
With fervent zeal preserve untainted fame. 

Of Heav’n the favour, and the conscience 
pure. 


Letter. 


315 


With noble soul disdain the partial view, 

The social ties that link mankind revere : 

To love, to honour, and to friendship true, 
Their holy dictates hold for ever dear. 

With pity’s drop bedew affliction’s smart, 

With lenient hand the pangs of misery heal ; 

To mild benevolence resign your heart, 

And learn the sacred luxury — to feel. 

For know, unfriended, many a virtue weeps, 

In deep sequester’d solitude forlorn : 

And many an eye unceasing vigils keeps. 
Whose cherish’d brightness might eclipse 
the morn. 

These all have claims upon the favour’d few. 
Whom fortune visits with a partial ray ; 

These all in grief’s expressive language sue— 
O ! hear their plaints, and wipe their tears 
away. 

So shall your hearts the sacred pleasures taste, 
That flow from charity’s expanded reign ; 

And gentlest transports settle in your breast. 

To blunt the sense of sublunary pain. 

So shall your days through varied life be bless’d, 
And smiling peace your guiltless steps sur- 
round ; 

The soul repose in present good possess’d, 

And, time no more, with boundless joy be 
crown’d. 


KND OJ? THE FIRST VOLUME. 


.A 


I 

George Phillips, Printer, 
Carlisle, Pa, 






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